


A Matter of Necessity

by tklivory



Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition - Cullrian [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Elizabethan Era, Angst, Dark Past, Elizabethan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, False Pretenses, Family Drama, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Interrupted Sexual Tension, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Rescue, Romance, Secrets, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sharing, resolved angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tklivory/pseuds/tklivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In sixteenth century London in merrie old England, Cullen of Rutherford seeks out the Italian actor known only as Dorian when his traveling theatre troupe visits London to perform for Good Queen Bess. Though Cullen claims he wishes only acting lessons from such a well-respected thespian, the truth of the matter proves to be far more complex than either Cullen or Dorian could have predicted. </p><p>Perhaps it is best to quote the great storyteller of this grand tale: <i>“It begins with a man in search of his heart.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This piece began as a prompt from [soupfulness](http://soupfulness.tumblr.com/): "You're my tutor on a subject I can easily ace but I'm only acting like I'm not good at it because I have a crush on you" AU. 
> 
> This prompt then became Cullrian [Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swqfFHLck1o) in my head. And from there, it turned into a Five Act work introduced by a masterful storyteller, as you are about to see. 
> 
> In other words, "this will be grand!" Enjoy!

He sat, quill in hand, and contemplated the words of his tale. Outside the tempest raged, but where he sat in his chair situated so nicely by the fire, it was as warm as a midsummer’s night. The story -  the story must be his concern, but he didn’t want to forget the _heart_ of the story. He hovered the quill above the inkpot on the table to his left for a moment, then shook his head and sat back, holding the quill up in front of his face. “The tale, Varric. What of the tale?” he murmured to himself.

Holding up his other hand, he spread his fingers wide. “Five days and nights, for hearts to draw together.” Folding his pinky in, he continued, “Four times they kiss, before those hearts beat as one.” His ring finger was next, adorned with a simple silver band, and he smiled. “Three friends, their hearts true, to aid where they need aiding.” Next went the insulting finger, the one in the middle. “Two countries, two stories, two pains to turn to comfort,” he mused as he contemplated the remaining two fingers. Finally, he tucked his thumb in against the rest, stabbing the paper with the pointing finger of declamation. “One born to greatness, one born in a farmer’s hut. One nobility, the other served. Yet one and both, they fought their past and forged a new path together.”

With that decided, Varric meticulously dipped his quill into the ink and tapped the nib, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Ah, yet how to actually begin? A broken heart or a long-lost love is a tad predictable.” After a moment of deep thought, quill tapping the curls on his chest thoughtfully, he finally nodded to himself and set to work once more. _“It began with a man in search of his heart._ That always works.”


	2. Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which A Man Seeks Out A Master

Cullen glanced at the scribbles on the parchment in his hand, trying to get a sense of where the noted location was in relation to where he stood. The feeble light of the flickering torches barely penetrated the chill of the London night, and certainly provided little aid to his cause. God Save the Queen and all, but even Good Queen Bess could do nothing for the perpetual haze of soot and ash that hung in the air like a dirty blanket on the best of days.

Fortunately, Cullen was north of the Bridge, in an area of the city where he could only dream of living. For that reason, the paper clutched in his hands was more than an address - it was a chance to touch _greatness_. In this case, greatness came in the form of an Italian actor in whom Cullen had taken a particular interest. The man was in London with his troupe for a series of limited engagements at the Queen’s Court. If Cullen’s friend was correct, however, tonight he was not performing and might actually be in residence - alone, if all went well.

He finally saw the sign of the _Peacock Palace_ as its bright blue and green paint reflected the dim torchlight and caught his attention. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried towards his destination. _God’s Blood, if I hadn’t slowed to adjust my ruff after that poxy dewberry almost knocked me to the ground, I might have missed it._

As he approached the inn, he shifted into the facade he’d come up with to use for this, the initial encounter: polite, earnest, and interested. _And hopefully interesting._ An inquiry with the gruff innkeep led him to the door of the Serpent Suite, and he paused to take a deep breath and check his appearance one more time. Only then did he rap upon the door.

“A moment!” called a voice from within, its tones and contours so tight and refined around an Italian accent that it _had_ to be the one whom he sought.

Cullen straightened, masking his nerves with the practice of over a decade of steady pretense. He only got one chance at this, after all, just as when he was on the stage. Each play was a separate duel, never offering second chances, and he knew it. _Maintain your calm, knave,_ he admonished himself. _Let not this chance slip you by._

When the door popped open, he managed not to jump, instead lowering his body into an elegant Court bow and respectfully averting his gaze. “I bid you good e’en, Master.” Only when the formal greeting was complete did he look up at the man and feel his breath hitch in his throat.

For once, rumor and criers had not exaggerated. In fact, Cullen felt they had underestimated the man before him. Black hair, pale eyes, and a skin you could see your own hand outlined against even in the dark… Add to that an overwhelming, wholly breathtaking _presence_ , and Cullen wondered if he was treading into waters too deep to fathom. Dorian of _Thiaso Pavonem_ was more than simply a striking man, he seemed to be even more than Cullen had dreamed.

Cullen abruptly realized he was staring and, more awkwardly, still bowing. Quickly he straightened, cursing silently as he saw a look of amusement on the man’s face, and tried his best to salvage the situation. “My name is Cullen of Rutherford, Master, and I--”

The man held up his hand. “Prithee, that is enough. You are not the first to come to me this e’en, and I daresay you will not be the last.” Gray eyes scrutinized Cullen so thoroughly that Cullen was left feeling a bit breathless. “And while I’ll admit you’re not the most unpleasant of sights for mine eyes, I’ve a surfeit of offers for those desiring a portion of my leisure time.”

Before the disastrous dismissal could reach its inevitable conclusion, Cullen dared to interrupt, “Master, I beg your mercy! I am not some craven knotty-pated puttock intent upon stealing your time simply to later brag of glorious conquest.” Swiftly he held up the piece of paper, ensuring that the seal on the paper was facing Dorian. “I bring a missive from a mutual friend, one from whom I have been assured you would be most desirous to receive word. It is from he whom I have come hither, hoping for a moment of your precious time.”

Dorian sniffed, then took the paper. “Well, you are a rather more eloquent lout than most who have dared venture to my door,” he mused, though his tone was still rather bored with the whole affair even as he opened the letter and began to peruse the contents. “And whom have you pretended to write a letter--” He suddenly stopped, then turned slightly so as to use the better lighting in his suite. “Felix?”

It was remarkable, how Dorian’s entire mien shifted from apathy to interest. Cullen breathed an inward sigh of relief as he replied, “Aye, my Lord. He did vouch that you would be most pleased to hear from him.”

When Dorian looked up at Cullen, his face had settled into a far warmer smile than the cynical expression he’d worn earlier. “Felix was most correct,” he said with a chuckle. “It has been so long, I had forgotten he was in this benighted place. He informs me that he is doing remarkably well, when all matters are taken into consideration.” He flicked the paper slightly as he spoke, gaze again sweeping over Cullen in that piercing fashion. “And he gives you praise in part for his improved state.”

Cullen demurred with a polite bow. “We’ve become as brothers these the past few months, my Lord. I would do whate’er he asked of me, without question or hesitation.”

“A good man, then.” Dorian’s lips twitched as he looked Cullen up and down once more, and Cullen wondered what question hovered behind them. He daren’t ask after it, and instead waited politely as Dorian again waved the paper at him. “He refers you to me for tutelage in the theatrical arts. A most notable commendation.” Now the expression on Dorian’s face could best be called speculative.

Cullen had wanted to ask for patronage outright, but Felix had cautioned that this would be a better way. _If this is indeed how best to attract his attention,_ Cullen reminded himself, _then needs must I do it._ “`Twas his thought, not mine, my Lord,” he avowed with all honesty. “Though I confess that I made no secret of my great admiration for your mastery of performance once I learned of his acquaintance with you.”

“You mean you blathered your admiration for all to see,” Dorian said with a chuckle. “Nor would you be the first. Yet I will allow it in this case, seeing as it was Felix who sent you hither. A pupil will help pass the time whilst I am in this dark and cold country, at the very least.” With a nod, Dorian said, “I shall be occupied with practice and performance during sunlit hours for the next few days, but mayhap we could spend time in the evenings for your tutelage. If you’ve a mind, that is.”

Cullen dipped into a Courtly bow, this time making absolutely sure the line of his legs were on excellent display without making it appear as if that were his goal. “‘Twould be the greatest honor of my life, Master. I place myself at your pleasure.”

Dorian’s eyebrow rose, along with one curl of his mustache. “Then we shall begin on the morrow. Come hither no earlier than the second hour of the night, mind. I require some leisure for my supper, after all.”

“An it please you, Master,” Cullen said, “so shall it be.”

“You seem quite an accommodating fellow. I shall strive to keep that in mind.” Dorian stepped back. “Until the morrow, then.”

“Until anon,” Cullen said, even as the door closed. Only then did he allow himself to sag back against the wall behind him and let his head fall back to hit the wall.

God’s _blood,_ but the man stirred his own. Absently reaching down to adjust his codpiece, Cullen congratulated himself on a fine performance even as he sent a silent prayer to the skies. _Let me touch that greatness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thiaso Pavonem_ \- Traveling Theatre Troupe of the Peacock


	3. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which A Man Entreats a Friend

“A full three hours, countless flirtations, and no results,” Cullen said in exasperation as he paced back and forth in the one space he could call his own, a small bedroom tucked away in the warren of small apartments where Cullen kept his residence.

Felix sat back on Cullen’s bed, his hands behind his head as he grinned. “Let it not be said I did not warn--”

Cullen held up a finger to shush the man from aware. “I am fully aware of your words,” Cullen told him.

“`Twas your belief which was lacking,” Felix chuckled, “not the truth of it.”

“Fie on your poxy teasing,” Cullen snarled. “`Tis most difficult, to tread the line between _good enough for interest_ and _too good for tutelage._ One slip and I risk what little I have managed to gain with him! What is your advice? I pray you have some for me.”

With a sigh, Felix pushed himself forward to sit on the edge of the bed. “Two. Items,” he said, each word clipped as he held up his thumb and pointer finger. “Item one, you made mention to me that he forewent his doublet and ruff.”

“Aye. Aye, that he did, but it meant naught,” Cullen groaned as he collapsed next to Felix. “For hours he paced around me, telling me of what I may improve, but his fingers ne’er touched nor brushed up against me. God’s blood, having him so near and so very, very far… it makes a man grateful for a stiff codpiece.” He glared at Felix as the man snickered. “`Tis all your blame.”

 _“My_ blame?” Felix asked incredulously.

“You gave me that flyer!” Cullen accused, pointing at the offending item pinned to the wall with a dagger. He didn’t even have to look anymore to know exactly where it was, so often did he scrutinize it. “You filled my head with these notions of a man who could rise above his past.”

Felix held up his hands in a defensive motion. “Aye, and `twas an idea of which you were sorely in need! No man should drink from dusk to dawn, not and expect to live. I sought to but give you a story to which to aspire.”

Cullen’s fingers sank into his hair with admittedly theatrical melodrama. “A story is one matter, and a flyer with the profile to drive men mad is another entire! Thus you inspired my final leap from interest to obsession! And that was _before_ I met him,” he added with a groan. “All these years when a whore was good enough to calm the need for a rut, and now… What have you inspired, my friend, with that villainous piece of paper?”

Ignoring Cullen’s theatrics, Felix stood with care and went to scrutinize the flyer in question. “Not a poor likeness, to my mind, though it doesn’t completely capture his… ah…”

“Bombast?” Cullen asked with an edge in his voice, clapping his hand to his own codpiece briefly to make the point. “Nay. It does not. And now that the man himself has been paraded before me…” Burying his face in his hands, he fell back on the bed as he groaned, “`Tis most unfair.”

Felix rolled his eyes and worked his way back to the bed slowly to sit at Cullen’s side. “Chin up, my saucy swag-bellied scut.”

Cullen’s hand pointed at Felix in warning, though the man himself remained supine on the bed. “Recall my warning about such insults,” he said. “A poxy tongue like that could get you into mischief.”

“And yet in the same breath you use one upon me,” Felix said with a laugh, which suddenly turned into a cough.

The sound made Cullen sit up hurriedly, a worried expression on his face. “Is aught well?”

Waving away the concern with a flippant snap of his wrist, Felix coughed a few more times, then cleared his throat vigorously. “A complaint of the throat only,” he said. “However, you did not let me finish my list.” He held up his thumb and pointer.

Though not fully convinced that Felix was, in fact, fully well, Cullen nodded. “`Tis true, his manner of dress was what a man would allow amongst friends, yet `tis more than friendship I seek. Might the second point,” he tapped his own finger against Felix’s outstretched one, “give me such a hope?”

“Item two,” Felix said, waving the finger, “I went to see him today whilst he practiced.”

Cullen tilted his head. “I thought you were not so inclined.”

“A man can change his mind,” Felix protested. “We had a fine conversation, of home and… and of other matters.”

“Dare I hope he spoke of me?”

Felix tapped his nose. “The first inquiry from his lips was whether I had, in very deed, sent you yonder. With that confirmed, aye, he had other questions. Of which I shall tell you nothing.”

“And here I thought we were the best of friends!” Cullen protested.

“Which is the reason wherefore I shall not tell you. There is more amusement to be gained in this fashion.” Felix grinned at him.

Cullen bit his thumb and flung it towards Felix, who collapsed into laughter. “Fie on you again!” he said in mock outrage, then launched himself at the man. After a bout of mock wrestling, they ended up panting on their backs, laughing at the world and all the vagaries therein.

After that, Cullen did feel better, even knowing what dreams would plague him that night, and the aching need those dreams would awaken in him upon his rising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short historical note: 'Bombast' originally was a word used to describe the padding used in Elizabethan clothing. Codpieces, in particular, became notorious for a short while for excess 'bombast'.


	4. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which A Man Is Given a Remarkable Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, a quick reminder that _'wherefore'_ actually means 'why', not 'where'! Also, rating changes to 'M' with this chapter.

Cullen arrived at the Serpent Suite at the same time as he had the previous night, and instantly noted the piece of paper tucked into the crack between frame and door. Further inspection showed his name writ upon it, so he retrieved it, unfolding the paper and taking it to some nearby candles to read.

_Proceed directly to the stage, I will join you anon._

Puzzled, he followed the instructions and entered, heading to the small practice stage, though in truth it was more a raised platform with a rickety backdrop than aught else. He leapt up onto the small stage and began to pace as he set his persona once more in his mind. _Fascinating in all the right ways,_ or so he prayed _._ A movement from the corner of his eye attracted his attention, and he turned to find Dorian entering the room.

A… Dorian naked from the waist up. Carrying two blunted stage rapiers in his hands, and wearing that damned cocky smile of his that Cullen always wanted to--

Interrupting his own thoughts before they manifested too physically for Dorian to ignore, Cullen jumped from the stage and bent in a bow. “Master, I bid you good e’en.”

“You make me feel quite the knave,” Dorian remarked apropos of nothing as he sauntered to the stage and claimed his place upon it.

“Oh? How did my invocation of such a sad despair come to pass?” Cullen responded. The prior lesson had eased their manner together, certainly, but it was a test of his resolve not to stare at what Dorian had put on display.

“You maintain your ruff and doublet,” Dorian declared, pointing at Cullen with one of the blades he held, “despite the lack of necessity. Come, come, remove the impediments and prepare yourself after my example. Mayhap that will unleash your skills as well, hmm?”

_He wants me… like him?_ Cullen could only nod. “‘Twould be more comfortable, aye.”

“Prithee, proceed. And whilst you do,” Dorian lifted the swords and rested them on his shoulders, “we shall play questions.”

Cullen fought the urge to stare at the way Dorian’s muscles tensed when he stood in that posture. “And how, pray tell, do we play questions?” he asked, as his hands worked at his clothes, starting with his doublet.

“Do you mean you’ve ne'er heard tell of them?” Dorian fired back.

The manner of response helped to clue Cullen in, and he gave Dorian a crooked grin. “Do you think me a fool?”

“Ah, but what manner of fool?” Dorian chuckled, extending a leg as he swayed to the side.

_Question, question…_ “Surely not the same manner you are?” It was weak at best, and he knew it.

“Foul! Statement as question. Point to me,” Dorian said in triumph. “Care to guess wherefore this is a good exercise?”

“Can I know such things if I am not informed?” Tugging the doublet and sleeves over his head and tossing them aside, he worked next at the ruff.

“Am I to assume the depth of your education?”

The peculiar emphasis Dorian gave to the word _depth_ made Cullen tug his collar off even more quickly. “Would it be wrong to do so?” he countered as his hands assaulted his shirt next.

Dorian’s eyes twinkled. “Can anyone know right from wrong in this world?”

“Rhetoric! My point,” Cullen declared as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the side. Two agile steps and a leap took him to the stage, and he bowed as he held out his hand. “An it please you, my weapon?”

Rather than flipping the sword to hold it by the blade, Dorian passed the hilt from his hand to Cullen’s directly, letting his fingers glide over Cullen’s wrist for a moment before withdrawing and taking two sharp steps back. Brandishing his blade, Dorian slashed it in the form of a cross and then assumed the _en garde_ position. “Can you defend yourself against my blade?”

“Wherefore do you assume I wish to?” Cullen countered, then flushed slightly. _Was that too forward?_ To cover the possible overreach, he quickly mirrored Dorian and tapped his blade against the other to signal his readiness. “You do recall I told you of my expertise in this arena?”

Dorian simply laughed. “Shall I not be my own judge of the strength of _your_ blade?” he asked, then stepped forward to begin the mock duel.

_God’s blood, to which of my blades does he refer?_ Grateful for the distraction given by the actual swordplay, Cullen countered, “Is not a man’s worth shown by the strength of his blade?”

“I’d rather judge a man’s worth,” Dorian began, then suddenly circled his rapier around Cullen’s in a smart maneuver which brought their hilts together, bringing the men abruptly face to face, “by the agility of his tongue.”

“Statement, not a question! Point to m--” Cullen’s ears finally caught up with him, and he blushed furiously. Still, he wouldn’t let that get in the way of the _first_ game. _Or was it the second?_ “Did you truly think that would work?” he demanded with a passing semblance of indignation despite the redness on his cheeks.

Dorian laughed and swept their blades to the side, stepping back and dropping into the ‘ready’ position once more. “The attempt was well worth the reward, was it not?”

“Do you expect an honest response to that?” Cullen grated as the redness started to fade from his cheeks and ears.

“On this stage, or a softer one?” Dorian teased, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Having no ready response to that, Cullen found his mouth opening and closing without any actual words coming out.

“Hesitation!” Dorian declared, stepping forward to tap his sword against Cullen’s. “Point to me. Next point wins the game.” He then smartly slapped Cullen on the backside with the flat side of his rapier, causing Cullen to stifle a yelp as he skipped across the small stage to stand where Dorian had been. “Are you sure you’ve played this game before?”

Resisting the urge to ask, _Which one?_ Cullen brought his blade up and ignored his stinging cheek out of sheer obstinacy. “And what does all this have to do with acting?” he said, changing tactics even as he dove in with his blade.

“Do you question the value of improvisation?” Dorian asked, an eyebrow raising in challenge as he smoothly countered Cullen’s blows.

“Can I not express my doubts?” Cullen protested, initiating a flurry that had them both shifting around the stage.

“Do you have any doubts to express?” Dorian replied glibly.

The smirk on the other man’s lips made Cullen bite his own in frustration, a surge he used to abruptly break through Dorian’s guard and tangle their hilts together. Pulling Dorian close, Cullen tilted his head and demanded, “Must you repeat everything I say?”

Dorian’s head canted in the opposite direction as he smiled in an oddly gentle fashion. “Must you be so charming when you speak?”

“Ch-charming?” It was technically a question, so it stood, but he hadn’t meant it to be part of the game.

“Utterly and completely,” Dorian said, staring into Cullen’s eyes with a directness that made Cullen grateful for his own bombast.

Slowly it dawned on Cullen that Dorian’s last words had not, in fact, been a question, and thus could be seen as game and match to Cullen. Was the game over? Had it been a deliberate forfeiture on Dorian’s part? Or was this the start of a new game entire? Unsure of the other man’s intent, he ventured, “So the game is mine, then?”

Dorian chuckled softly as he reached up to claim both swords. Tossing them to one side with a clatter, he set his hands on his hips. “Quite the rude pupil, are you not, to thusly so overshadow your mentor?”

_`Tis not… `tis not a game anymore… is it?_ It was proving hard to keep up with the changing situation, so Cullen decided to proceed with caution. Mimicking Dorian’s posture, he asked in a low voice, “Would you prefer down?”

Chin dipping slightly, Dorian’s lips widened into a smile Cullen could only label as _sultry._ “Do I have to have a preference?” he inquired as he shifted to one side.

_God’s blood, that smile._ “One would think so, would they not?”

“Mayhap one would think so, but you wish to know whether _I_ think so.” He leaned forward minutely, head tilting so he could look at Cullen from an angle. “Do you have reason to believe that I would have such a preference?”

Cullen slowly licked his lips, “Master, I pray you have a preference, in very deed.” _There. An end to the game._ Which game he actually _meant,_ even Cullen didn’t quite know. It may yet be that both game and pretense would come to an end now. Either way, Cullen edged forward, unable to help himself.

“Oh, I have _many_ preferences when it comes to thoughts and deeds and prayers,” Dorian assured him.

They were close enough now that their breaths caught on the other’s lips, yet neither actually touched the other. The palpable _yet_ Cullen added to that thought sent a shiver down his spine. “You ask wherefore I do not beseech the skies?” he murmured.

Dorian’s eyes flicked down to look at Cullen’s lips, then rose again. “I ask wherefore you do not beseech _me.”_

_God’s blood._ Cullen took a shuddering breath and let his eyelids half shut for a moment before he opened them again. “You, I would never beseech with words. Rather, my preference would be for lips and looks and tingling touches.”

Cullen gasped when he felt fingertips land on his exposed chest, and he watched Dorian’s eyes fall to where his hand slowly stroked upwards over flesh glistening with sweat. “Tingling touches such as these?” the man asked, then looked up at Cullen with a lidded gaze.

Eyelids fluttering closed as the fingers reached his neck and slowly explored upwards, Cullen nodded. “Aye, though that is but one of three, Mas--”

Lips brushed his own, soft as silk and hot as a summer’s day. Cullen moaned softly when the touch proved to be fleeting, a cruel taunt of promised intimacy. Then he felt a hand sink into his hair and pull his head back, and those same lips found a racing pulse, lightly brushing over flushed skin down to the hollow of his throat. As Dorian retraced his path, he spoke, pouring hot breath over Cullen’s skin in between those devilishly teasing kisses, the mustache adding an extra fillip of pleasure that made Cullen moan once more. “And now?”

“And now we have all three.” A haze had settled over Cullen, and he was only vaguely aware that his own hands had settled on Dorian’s hips somewhere amidst Dorian’s delicious teasing.

“Thus you have received my prayer,” Dorian said softly as his hand released its grip on Cullen’s hair. “Perchance I could witness yours?”

Cullen lifted his head to he could meet Dorian’s gaze. “Most happily.”

When their lips met this time, it was more than a teasing glance of skin on skin. Cullen pulled Dorian’s hips tight to his own, close enough to reveal the secrets previously hidden by the codpieces. After that, he slid his hand up Dorian’s back to cradle the man’s head as he deepened the kiss further, taking his time to savor the experience as thoroughly as possible. The heat between them grew more intense as Cullen alternated between tasting those soft lips and pulling the lower one between his teeth to bite down gently and then slowly release it.

When both men had been reduced to panting, he finally released Dorian from the kiss and stared deeply into those grey eyes, licking his tingling lips slowly even as he saw Dorian’s tongue pass over reddened flesh. “And did I meet your expectations?”

After a few moments of slowing breaths, Dorian smiled. “In this circumstance, aye.”

“And in what circumstances do I yet fall short?” Cullen asked as his thumb caressed the other man’s cheek.

“I did mention thoughts and deeds and prayer all at once, as I recollect,” Dorian said, his own fingers resuming their exploration of Cullen’s throat.

“Aye, that you did,” Cullen said with a slow smile. His hand shifted to trace the outer shell of Dorian’s ear as he leaned in and nuzzled his mouth against the side of Dorian’s head. “Here are my thoughts, then, for your maunderings. I _think,”_ he said, hips edging forward with each iteration of the word, “that I am going to push you against the wall over there with force enough to make you gasp. I _think_ I’m going to rip these damned codpieces off. I _think_ I’m going to take us both in hand and…” He paused when he heard a small gasp from the other man, and grinned. “Or mayhap those thoughts are sufficient?”

Dorian took a deep breath. “Oh, they are quite lovely. Like little jewels, in point of fact. However, I find myself pondering if it is time to move beyond prayer and thought.”

“Shall we proceed as swiftly as may be to deed, then?” Cullen asked as he pulled back. He felt Dorian’s hands settle on _his_ hips and tug him closer, and this time it was Cullen who shuddered.

“Mayhap that depends. Are we still… practicing?” Dorian asked softly.

The question made Cullen pause. Surely this hadn’t all been a _lesson_ of some sort, had it? “Practicing what?”

“Practicing at pretending, naturally.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Or perchance we were merely pretending to practice from the first.” He dipped in for a short, soft kiss, then murmured, “Which is your preference?”

Dorian sucked his lower lip between his teeth and then slowly let it find freedom. “My preference is… your prayer.”

“Then,” Cullen whispered as he wrapped his arms around Dorian, “I shall pray.”

The soft moan Dorian made as Cullen brought their lips together was exquisite, and fitting to the worship he intended of the man. Long and lingering, he extended the kiss until he felt Dorian sag into him, losing that last little bit of resistance - though the thought did cross Cullen’s mind whether Dorian was resisting Cullen, or himself. Only then did he part their lips, and watched as Dorian’s eyes slowly opened.

One curled corner of the man’s magnificent mustache slowly lifted. “You never required my tutelage,” he murmured.

Cullen chuckled, glad the secret was finally, fully out. “For acting, I confess that to be true. Yet ne’er before have I received such masterful and insightful instruction on the subject of prayer than I have with you. And though `twas not acting skills which I lacked, I daresay that mayhap I learned of a greater need still.”

The other curl rose to match the first as Dorian’s smile spread to his entire face. “A need we found together, perchance?” he suggested, and his eyes glanced down to Cullen’s lips, then back up to meet his gaze. “So what say you to exploring all these delicious deeds, hmm?”

Cullen’s lips spread into a slow smile. “To work, then?”

“In very deed,” Dorian murmured, his hand reaching around Cullen’s hip to settle on his backside, pulling him closer…

...just as someone pounded on the door.

_“_ _Vai a morire ammazzato,”_ Dorian muttered under his breath, even as Cullen issued a rather less gentle oath than was his wont. “I beg your pardon,” he added to Cullen, stealing one last kiss before releasing him with a sigh and walking from the room, snagging a dressing gown hanging on the back of a chair along the way. As Cullen leaned his head back and tried to make sense of how quickly matters had changed between himself and Dorian, he heard the front door open, and, more alarmingly, heard Dorian call out, “Cullen!” with panic in his voice.

Cullen didn’t even pause to think, merely burst into motion as he dashed to the door to find Dorian supporting someone in his arms. “Felix?” he cried, rushing forward to take the man into his arms. His breath sucked in through his teeth when he saw the blood on Felix’s lips. “You should not have come hither, not in your condition,” he scolded as he heaved him up.

“The sofa,” Dorian said, sweeping past Cullen. “I’ll get some wine.”

Cullen nodded and carefully laid Felix down, trying to make him as comfortable as he could. Felix’s eyes opened slightly, and he smiled when he saw Cullen. “No shirt. Damn. Beg pardon.”

“Fret not about that,” Cullen told him sternly. “What has happened?” He glanced up as Dorian returned with the cup of wine and reached out to take it.

“I was a… mewling, clay-brained giglet,” Felix sighed. When Cullen put the cup to his lips, he drank eagerly, then let his head fall back. “Went to… tavern, and after, knaves… accosted me on way back home. Had to… to leg it.”

Cullen winced. “And this was the closest safe place?”

“Aye. But… can’t… stay,” he managed, then sagged back into the couch.

Surprised, Cullen looked at Dorian, but found the man already nodding. “`Tis the truth.” He knelt beside Cullen and put his hand on Felix’s forehead. “He has a physician?”

“Aye, one of the best,” Cullen said softly. “I shall fetch him after taking Felix to his home. `Tis late enough that one man carrying another won’t be an odd sight.” Drunkards were fairly common in London at this hour, after all. He glanced at Dorian, and found those grey eyes already upon him, a clear concern in them. “I shall attend him. I promise.”

Dorian nodded. “Abide,” he said softly, then stood and left the room. As Cullen plied Felix with wine, Dorian returned carrying Cullen’s clothes. “You’d best make haste,” he said. “He should not be seen here.”

Cullen wanted to ask _why_ , but refrained out of respect for the privacy of both men. Dressing quickly, he nodded to Dorian. “I shall do what I can.”

“This I know.” Suddenly Dorian reached out and grabbed the front of Cullen’s doublet, pulling him into a searing kiss which, though brief, carried all the passion of their broken tryst. When their lips broke apart, Dorian’s eyes remained closed as he whispered, “It is not yet done between us.”

Cullen felt his throat tighten. “It gladdens me to hear you speak thus,” he said in a husked tone.

With a soft sigh, Dorian's fingers rose to touch Cullen’s cheek. “Anon, then. As before.”

Turning his head to catch those fingers with a kiss, Cullen nodded. “Anon.”

No more words were exchanged as Cullen stepped back and gathered the unconscious Felix in his arms, nor as he left Serpent Suite. Both men knew that the only words left unspoken were not those of farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vai a morire ammazzato_ = Italian insult meaning "go and die murdered"


	5. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which A Man Ensures His Friend Is Safe

Hours later, Cullen sat upon Felix’s bed, holding the man’s hand as he slept. The physician had come and gone, leaving Felix with a steady breath and lighter purse - and alive. Cullen had followed the physician’s instructions to ease his friend’s labored breathing, and now Felix sounded much more at ease. Every once in a while Cullen would glance down and gently feel the other man's forehead before idly running his fingers through the man’s hair, relieved to find no fever such as the physician had warned against.

Cullen himself passed into the twilight beyond fatigue, his thoughts difficult to focus. When he was not worrying about Felix, his mind settled back on its _other_ fixation. Every time Cullen closed his eyes, he swore he could feel Dorian: the breath hot on his neck, those lips caressing his own, or the tickle of that mustache moving so seductively over his skin. Each word, each inflection, was recalled and savored, as was the play of the candlelight over the man’s muscles as they’d sparred and… after.

His head fell back against the wall, teeth clamping down on his lower lip as he recalled that last desperate kiss. Tired as he was, his free hand slipped down, under his codpiece, to stroke his now-firm flesh. As his fingers stroked slowly along his length, he loosed a small gasp, memories from the night prior welling in his mind. Closing his eyes, he let his pace remain slow as he simply enjoyed the sensations. He didn’t want release, just to heighten the memories.

“Matters have improved between you both, then?” a sleepy voice asked.

“God--!” Cullen sputtered, pulling his hand out quickly as he sat up. “Felix!” Crawling down the bed so he could face his friend directly, he squeezed the man’s hand. “How fare you?”

“Not going to sprint through London anytime soon, I’m afraid,” Felix admitted with a sheepish smile. “But the fire is gone from my lungs. I am in your debt once more.”

“I made a promise,” he said as he clapped his other hand on top of Felix’ hand. “Christmas. My family. My sister, Mia.” He smiled. “Remember her?”

Felix’s cheeks brightened. “Aye, fondly, as well you know. And that… that is a reason to keep going, `tis true. She is a most gentle lady.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I pray your pardon for mine actions,” he offered.

Cullen cleared his throat and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I… won’t deny that it was… remarkably poor timing on your part,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But one could well argue that had your arrival been delayed but for a while, it would have been very much _worse.”_

That brought a weak chuckle from Felix. “So `twas unfortunate but no true disaster.”

“Aye,” Cullen laughed softly, but the laugh died quickly. “He requested that I return anon. You need not fret.” He then hesitated, wondering how to approach the next subject.

Felix sighed softly. “You want to know of the dire nature of which we made mention,” he observed.

Cullen nodded, then realized Felix still had his eyes closed. “Aye. If you two be such close friends, wherefore is it dangerous to be near him? Need I remain close by?”

“The risk is not to me,” Felix said. “I beseech you, give it no mind, Cullen.”

Lips pressing together, Cullen finally nodded. “As you will.” _And if the risk is not to you, then it must be to Dorian._ The thought made his stomach clench - he knew all too well about the past catching up with the present, after all. “You should rest, then. He’ll want to know how improved your state is on the morrow.”

Felix relaxed, though the tension had been subtle. “You are a true friend, Cullen.” He squeezed Cullen’s hand. “Dawn approaches.”

Cullen looked with surprise to the window, eyes catching a glimpse of sunlight rising. “So it does, and most aptly explains my exhaustion.”

Waving vaguely at the rest of his bed, Felix said, “Sleep hither. ‘Twould not be the first time, though you are not heavy with drink for this round,” he said with a strained chuckle.

“Aye.” With a sigh, Cullen crawled to the other side of the bed and collapsed on top of it. “And remind me not of my foolish youth.”

“`Twas only a few months past!” Felix teased with a grin in his voice.

“Ah, foolish and wild-spent youth! Alas at my foolishness,” Cullen lamented, grateful for the laugh they both shared. “Yet the boon of sleep does pull me.” He reached over and patted Felix’s arm. “Sleep well.”

“You as well.” Cullen heard Felix sniff before he added, “And should you desire to blacken mine eye once more, kindly choose my left this time.”

Cullen kept his wince in reaction to the words hidden, simply allowing himself a chuckle. “In all truth, no nightmares have plagued me of late.”

“Oh, hoh! Is that because a particular thespian has replaced them?” Felix said, nudging Cullen.

“Silence, you scurvy knave,” Cullen said severely, and completely unable to suppress his grin. “I am lost in slumber.”

“An it please you, my Lord,” Felix said with mock solemnity. Silence did fall afterwards, leaving Cullen to contemplate the pull of sleep and what might await him in his dreams.

_Pray it is the Italian._


	6. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Several Rescues Occur

Cullen came to regret that last, silent prayer when he clawed his way from sleep into a sitting position an unknowable time later. The visions of his nightmare moved still in front of his eyes, save that the face of those wreathed in flame had changed from his countrymen to… _Nay. Never would I hurt Dorian. Never_ could _I do so._ His teeth gritted as he pushed the image from his mind, raising his shaking hands to cover his face for a few moments. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his drenched shirt, and it took him a moment to realize that the harsh breaths echoing in his ears belonged to him. After a time, it dawned to him that he was alone in the bed, and that a faint murmur of voices could be heard from the next room.

Struggling to get his breathing under control, Cullen slid off the bed silently and moved to the door, instinct keeping him quiet as he listened with caution.

“--your blame, Father!” Felix said, the anger clear in his voice.

“Dorian is a man grown,” a male voice replied with more than a touch of irritation. “Your continued defense of him is more than a bit tiresome, given the circumstances.”

“Oh?” Felix snapped. “And precisely to which circumstances do you refer? Our friendship? A friendship _you_ encouraged, as long as `twas on Italian soil? Or mayhap you think somehow his desire to escape his home infected me? We both know why I am here, Father.”

The other man gave a heavy sigh. “Aye. And why you insist on speaking this barbaric tongue. I wish it could be otherwise, my son.”

Felix took a shaky breath. “We both know it would take God’s own hand for me to see the Twelfth Night.” Wincing, Cullen closed his eyes as he heard the quiet resignation in his friend’s voice. “Here will I abide until the end of my days. You let me choose this, Father. What is so improper in letting Dorian settle his own fate?”

“For the answer to that, you would need to ask his father,” the other man replied. “I did what could be done, but once he left Italy, my protection meant nothing. Not against the reach of a man like Mantua.”

Cullen frowned. _Mantua?_ As the argument resumed, however, he shook his head in dismissal of the thought and focused again on father and son. “Oh, nay, Alexius of ___ could _never_ act against a man of the Duke's _impeccable_ reputation, a man who imprisons his son and heir because he wants to ensure he becomes a _proper_ son and heir. Certes, such a man is above reproach.”

“Dorian’s behavior is a great mortification for Mantua,” the other man said in a weary tone. “It is fortunate the lad uses not his family name as he travels whilst entertaining these frivolities, but--”

“These _frivolities_ of which you speak are his joy. Not being forced into the decadence of a life of lies with a wife picked for his father’s political pleasure!” Felix insisted. “Verily, Dorian has performed for the Queen herself!”

“Aye. `Tis how his father learned of his whereabouts. Dorian grows overconfident, or neglects to realize how little this backwater of a country matters to his homeland.”

“What is your meaning?” Felix asked, voice suspicious.

Alexius sighed. “Meaning Mantua could snatch Dorian from his very rooms and no one in Italy would ever learn that his son had been so very rebellious.”

Unable to restrain himself, Cullen pushed into the room, in time to see Felix grab the doublet of an older, richly dressed mirror of himself and pull their faces together. “He intends this?”

“I would imagine. I came across the Channel first, but he is not far behind.” The older man put a hand on one of Felix’s wrists. “I am sorry. I am fond of the young man.”

Felix jerked his wrist away. “You saw what Dorian was like when last he managed to escape. If his father gets hold of him again…”

“Any man can be broken,” Cullen said in a harsh voice, “as I know far too well.”

“Felix, who be this--” Alexius began, but Cullen refused to let the man finish.

“`Tis an imminent danger, then?” When Alexius didn’t answer right away, Cullen strode forward and pulled him from Felix’s grasp, using the tone and expression he’d used to break men before. _“What say you?”_

“M-mayhap, though I know not for certain,” the man stammered, but Cullen had already pushed him away.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “I cannot run with you, my friend,” Felix said softly. “Yet needs I must ask you to do so on my behalf.”

“Your sword,” Cullen said, ignoring Alexius’ blustering questions about who he was and why he was here.

Felix ran to where his blade hung above the hearth, pulling it and its sheath from the hook and tossing it to Cullen. “Make haste, my friend.”

With a nod, Cullen left, a sense of violent purpose frightening him with its intimate familiarity as he dashed through the streets of London to the _Peacock Palace_. He didn’t have to know what Dorian’s father had done to him - or intended to do to him - only that it bode ill for Dorian.

When he reached the inn, old training led him to the back entrance, where those on clandestine business would be more likely to conduct it. His heart sped up as he saw a maid suddenly come through the door at speed, screaming and pointing at the man who had pushed her. When two men emerged with someone struggling and cursing in Italian between them, Cullen didn’t even hesitate, particularly when another pair dressed in the same livery also emerged.

With a shout intended to distract, he drew his sword and entered the fray, hitting his hilt against the closest man’s head with all the righteous wrath he’d felt building on the way over. The man collapsed to the ground, and Cullen used his remaining momentum to barrel into one of the men holding Dorian. Crashing the man into the wall, he heard more Italian cursing and the sounds of scuffling behind him. With a curse, Cullen aimed a strong kick at the side of his opponent’s knee, taking advantage of the man’s abrupt hunched posture to bash him in the skull with another vicious blow.

Stripping the sword from the man’s belt, he spun and danced to the side to avoid being tackled, then dashed towards the brute who had managed to occupy Dorian’s attention. After a strong shove sent the man reeling, Cullen tossed the second sword to Dorian, who adroitly caught it as Cullen turned to face the fourth man with perfect timing.

From there, it was a short, vicious fight which left them panting in the street. Dorian looked at Cullen, who growled wordlessly when he saw the torn clothing as well as the large bruise on the man’s cheek. “How fare you?” he asked, reaching out to tip Dorian’s face upwards so he could observe the damage better.

Dorian pushed the hand away, then pointed down the narrow alley. “All is not yet well,” he said as he readied his sword. “More approach.”

A glance showed Cullen an additional cluster of men in the same livery approaching them from the distance. “God’s teeth, but they are persistent.” He glanced at Dorian. “Mayhap ‘twould be better to flee?”

“I will follow where you lead.”

With a nod, Cullen burst into a run in the opposite direction from their potential assailants. Dorian caught up with him quickly, and Cullen's ears told him the men behind them had also picked up their speed. “Yonder, sharp right. Pray, trust me,” he gasped.

“Implicitly,” Dorian assured him.

A building or two before the alley ended, Cullen grabbed Dorian’s hand and pulled him down that sharp right, taking them into the warren of buildings which housed some of the better warehouses for rich men in the area. Their brandished blades were sufficient warning to clear the path before them, and the Italian cursing behind them grew more distant as Cullen used his knowledge of the city to outpace the foreigners.

Finally he kicked a particular door open, dragged Dorian through, and then shut and barred the door behind them. After a few long, harsh breaths, they heard footsteps run by, but none paused.

Cullen turned and collapsed against the door, head falling back to land on the wood with a _thunk_. “Mewling toad-spotted wagtails, the lot of--”

His words came to a muffled halt when Dorian pressed into him, claiming his lips in a fervent kiss. The swords dropped to the ground unnoticed as Cullen responded in equal measure, the adrenaline coursing through both men serving to speed not only their feet but their pulses and, as Cullen found when Dorian ground their hips together, their ardor. His hands sank into Dorian’s hair since the other man was taking care of their hips, and concentrated of devouring the proffered lips. He couldn’t help but notice the air of desperation in himself, fed by the lingering thought of what would have happened if he’d arrived even a quarter hour later.

Abruptly Dorian ended the kiss and his hands rose to cup Cullen’s face as he pressed their foreheads together. “I do not have sufficient words to express my gratitude,” he said softly. “Much as I prefer not to play the role of damsel in distress, I admit I could not imagine a more welcome Knight in shining armor.”

Cullen couldn’t help but bark a laugh at the notion. “I am quite as far from a noble knight as one may be, believe you me. I was simply a desperate man.”

Dorian’s lips curved up on one side. “Mayhap that be an improvement over Knight, then. Certes I would prefer no other.”

“For a dashing rescue?” Cullen asked, laughing softly.

“For that, as well,” Dorian said with a gentle smile before pressing close for a soft, slow kiss.

That smile and those words evoked a warmth that even the kiss could not, and Cullen melted into Dorian, pulling him close. When their lips parted, a grin had lit upon his face. “Admittedly, an abandoned storeroom in a storage warehouse feels to be less than apropos for such confessions.”

Dorian laughed, a low and relaxed sound. “Hmm, true. Yet I find it _hard_ to move?” His hips edged forward as he spoke, leaving little mystery as to what he referred, and they shared a smile.

“I as well. Yet ‘twould be better to move on. There are more comfortable places to relax, I vouch.” He leaned down to retrieve the swords and abruptly straightened when a hand landed on his backside and squeezed. “Tush, sir!” he said with a laugh. “Mayhap we should go yonder?” He held out the sword he’d taken from the Mantuan henchman.

“As you wish, since you do protest with such demure demeanor,” Dorian said with a mock sigh as he took the sword, though his stance as he checked the blade in the dim light spoke of sobriety. When next he spoke, his voice reflected it as well. “I fear we have not seen the last of them. I was foolish, to behave as if I could not be touched.” He looked away for a moment. “`Twas Felix sent you hither?”

Cullen nodded, taking the time to examine the blade he had from Felix. “His father spoke of imminent and unsavory action on the part of yours. I could not abide, not with such suspicion of danger to you.”

“And well you did not,” Dorian said softly, gaze still averted. “I was… not at my best when they accosted me.”

Though curious, Cullen refrained from questioning. “I have an old acquaintance who lives near the Bridge. He can take us in, at least for the nonce.”

Dorian nodded. “Then let us depart. I presume you have a different path than that which led us hither? That will more than likely be warded.”

“Naturally,” Cullen said with an overly confident demeanor, though he knew Dorian would know it for the facade it was. Tucking the blade into the usually empty loop at his belt, he scrutinized Dorian for a moment. “You do appear to have scuffled. Mayhap you could pretend to an abundance of drink.”

Dorian grimaced. “It would… not be difficult.”

Cullen frowned. “What is your meaning?” he asked, stepping closer and gently cradling Dorian’s chin so the man would face him.

With a heartfelt sigh, Dorian said, “I… had quite a different evening planned. Mayhap I tried to use wine to solace myself.”

“Ah.” Suddenly Dorian’s comment about not being at his best when his father’s henchmen found him made quite a bit more sense. Leaning forward, Cullen brushed his lips against those beneath that delightful mustache, then stepped back. “Well, you look roughed up enough it will only aid in your deception,” he said with a sympathetic smile. After all, he understood Dorian’s dilemma _intimately._

The smile Dorian offered back was tremulous at first, then grew stronger the longer he met Cullen’s gaze. “Not by my choice, I assure you. Those louts have no respect for fine clothes.” He straightened, attempted to correct his clothing, then shrugged. “Let us venture forth then,” he said with a more certain mien.

Cullen nodded, taking the lead as he took them from the warren of warehouses. There were a couple of close calls with that familiar livery, and once a man followed them for a while, but Cullen was able to lose him in the weaver’s warehouse amidst the endless bales of cotton. He’d hunted so many men and women through these tight, confusing corridors that the instinct remained for how to lose a pursuer amongst them.

Eventually they emerged into a street which would eventually lead him to the house of the old acquaintance - one who understood on an intimate level a similar kind of Hell as Cullen did, though not the _same_ Hell. As they strolled down the street, Cullen ostentatiously supporting Dorian in their charade, he murmured, “For your knowledge, I should inform you that my friend is a Turk.”

Dorian chuckled. “Why, Cullen, I never would have suspected of you being an intimate of an enemy of all Christendom.”

“His allegiance no longer lies with the Empire,” Cullen quipped. “He jests of someday returning when the nightmares of the wars he fought for them fade, yet I suspect many more years will pass before the nightmares do.” Shaking his head, Cullen continued, “He’s a good man, though. We’ve been there for each other for times beyond counting over these past few years.”

“Then I shall control my tongue,” Dorian grunted. His voice dropped slightly, and he murmured, “Save when it involves _you.”_

Cullen felt his cheeks warm, and he cleared his throat. “He lives not far.”

Dorian started to chuckle softly, then suddenly halted precipitously in his tracks, pulling Cullen back to his side. “Yonder,” he said softly, nodding to where the back street they walked upon joined the main thoroughfare.

A stream of soft curses came from Cullen’s lips as he saw several men step into the mouth of the street. His sword was out in one swift motion, held with a ready ease that spoke not of actor’s training. “They shall not have you,” he swore.

“Not if it means your end,” Dorian said in hushed tones. “I withstood Father’s demands once before, I can do it again.”

Cullen shot him an almost angry glance. “Not so. Anyone can be broken, believe you me.”

As Dorian looked at him with a puzzled expression which turned thoughtful, Cullen raised his voice and called to the men ahead of them. “Leave us be. I shall defend us, if pressed.”

He heard steel drawn next to him, and glanced over to see Dorian take his place next to Cullen, a grim look on his face. _“We_ shall defend ourselves,” he said with grim defiance. “Let us pass.”

In answer, there was the sound of blades drawn, but not from ahead of them. Cullen pivoted quickly, catching the blade of the first of the men to flank them and swipe it to the side while Dorian’s sword darted beneath the defense of a second man to slash across his thigh. From there, the fight was engaged. A quick evaluation of their position with enemies both in front and behind led Cullen to grab Dorian's arm and pull him to a nearby wall, ignoring the sting of a blade on his arm as they found a more defensible location.

Abruptly a voice called something in Italian, and the men they were fighting stepped back, disengaging entirely. As they moved to join their fellows at the mouth of the alley, another man approached them, this one unarmed and dressed as a noble. Cullen heard Dorian inhale sharply, and when his companion lowered his blade, Cullen realized who, precisely, they were now facing.

A surmise proven correct when Dorian breathed, “Father.”

 _“Mio figlio,”_ the man said in a voice Cullen could only call weary as he gestured to Cullen. _“Ditegli di--”_

Dorian held up his hand with a sharp gesture. “You do not have the right to call me that,” he said in a tight tone of fury. “And _this_ is how we will speak.”

The older man sighed. “You have grown even more stubborn,” he replied in thickly accented English. “I had hoped that I could speak reason to you--”

“Reason?” Dorian surged forward a step, and Cullen reached out instinctively to put a steadying hand on the man’s sword arm. Dorian took a deep breath and nodded. “We’ve had this discussion, _Father._ Or had you forgotten?”

“Dorian,” the man began, but Dorian seemed to grab the word from the air and toss it aside with an angry gesture.

“Nay, you have already made yourself perfectly clear, Father.” He pointed at the men lying on the ground, and the ones waiting at the end of the street. “You did not even wish to give me a choice in the manner of my return. As always, you think that you know what is best for me, because you assume that it aligns so very nicely with the interests of Mantua.”

The man raised a hand, trying to talk again, “I know how this must look, but it was never my intent to harm you.”

Dorian stepped forward again, though this time the sword remained low, so Cullen did not interfere. Pointing at his bruised cheek, Dorian grated slowly, “Does _this_ look like no harm, Father? Regardless of your _intent,_ it has happened.”

“I need you with me, Dorian,” his father attempted once more, but Dorian laughed.

“Nay, that be not your need. You need your heir, a puppet you can trot in front of Cosimo de Medici to get that alliance you’ve been craving. Time is running out, isn’t it? Soon all the Medici daughters will be snatched up by other lords.” He leaned forward, face set in a mask. _“Let them._ I care not. Not anymore. You made sure of _that.”_ He stopped, chest heaving, and then abruptly turned away, stalking to the nearest building to splay his free hand upon the wall and bow his head, obviously distraught.

When his father stepped after him, Cullen interceded and held up his sword. “Come no further,” he warned in a voice he hadn’t used in years, and the Duke immediately halted.

The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between Cullen and Dorian. “Ah, it becomes clear to me now. He dallies because of you.” When Cullen only laughed at him, his face grew angry. “Do you know whom you threaten, _ragazzo?”_

At that, Dorian’s head snapped around, and he walked up to stand at Cullen’s side. “You know nothing of me, Father. I wonder if ever you did. Do not dare turn that faulty judgment upon others of my acquaintance.”

His father winced, but it was only momentary. “Enough of this. I need you to return home, Dorian. I promise you, I only desired conversation, but--”

“--but you knew I would absolutely refuse any invitation, so you sent these fools after me,” Dorian grated, gesturing towards the Mantuan henchmen still gathered at the end of the street. Cullen’s eyes instinctively followed, counting the number of soldiers in preparation of a potential battle… and noticed a new element which made him smile, ever so slightly. He turned his attention back in time to hear Dorian say, “I will stay away from Italy, eschew my family name, whatever you require of me to avoid _embarrassment._ I implore only that you leave me _be.”_

“I am sorry, Dorian.” Cullen had to give the Duke credit: he actually _did_ sound apologetic. “Yet needs be you must accompany me back to Mantua.”

Cullen took a half-step forward, bringing his sword up once more, and let a smile come to his lips which had been perfected in a time of madness. Satisfaction surged through him when the noble took a half-step back in alarm. “I would rethink your stance, _sirrah,”_ he said with pointed insult. “You will find your position not nearly as firm as you believe.”

The Duke’s face darkened with wrath. “How dare you address me in such a manner?”

Cullen glanced down the small street and pointed with his sword. “I dare because of _that.”_

Dorian and his father both turned to look, and Dorian began to laugh heartily. All the Mantuan soldiers were flat on the ground, and in the middle of their supine bodies stood a huge bull of a man: broad shouldered, thick in the torso, and towering above a much shorter man who stood with him, cudgel swinging easily in his grasp. The huge man nudged one of the groaning men on the ground. “Looks like they’re down for the count, doesn’t it?” he rumbled, then looked up at the Duke, revealing a face scarred by many battles and an eyepatch which glinted dully in the dimming light. “Sorry about that. They looked at me funny.”

The Duke paled, then looked back to Cullen, whose smile had not changed. He knew his eyes spoke of death to those who looked, and Mantua was no exception.

“This is not over,” the man swore as he backed away from Dorian and Cullen.

“Aye, Father. It is,” Dorian said, sounding weary. _“Addio per sempre.”_

The Duke did not quite scuttle, but he certainly moved away at speed, giving all involved a wide berth as he fled the scene with what little dignity he had left.

The huge man gestured to Cullen, who nodded and sheathed his sword. Looking at Dorian, Cullen said, “Let us leave this place.”

“Most gladly,” Dorian breathed, and both men headed towards their erstwhile ally and his companion. “The Turk, I presume?”

Cullen chuckled softly. “The very same. You see why I brought him to mind when I desired aid?”

“Most assuredly. Though at present, the only aid I desire is a nice, warm bed.”

After a glance to make sure that he understood Dorian's true meaning, Cullen nodded. “That is a sentiment I agree with most heartily.”

“Come on,” the Turk said as they drew near. “Let’s get you off the streets before the Duke thinks to pay for more muscle.”

“You have our thanks, Boğa,” Cullen told the man.

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it? It’s a good thing they raised a ruckus looking for you, though, or I might not have heard about it in time,” the huge man mused with a grunt before gesturing them to follow. “Let’s go.”

“To where, my good man?” Dorian asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Boğa promised.

Cullen sighed with relief as they set into motion. _God’s blood, what a day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about this chapter:
> 
> Twelfth Night - the final day of the celebration of Christmas in Elizabethan England  
> Alexius of ____ = obscure Shakespearean joke  
> Boğa = Bull (what else?) - [pronunciation roughly 'boh-ah'](http://forvo.com/word/bo%C4%9Fa/)  
>  _Addio per sempre_ = Goodbye forever


	7. Interlude III

“An Italian?” Boğa mused as he handed Cullen a mug of his special brew before taking the chair next to him. A modest walk had taken them to the Turk’s home, tucked away amidst a series of haphazardly arranged but well-built homes not too far from the Bridge. Inside, the man’s background was more obvious, with all manner of objects betraying a distinct Ottoman origin. It took a trained eye to realize that the foreignness was but a distraction from the nature of the house itself, leading the eye away from the reinforced walls and strategically arranged heavy furniture. “A man of the arts, no less. When you fall, you fall in unexpected ways, Rutherford.”

“I _am_ an actor now,” Cullen reminded him, sniffing at the contents of the mug with suspicion. Boğa's Brews had quite a reputation in certain parts of London. “Technically a ‘man of the arts’.”

Boğa snorted. “You’ve been an actor since the day you put aside your uniform, just like me. ‘Course, our uniforms were different, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t acting every day - yesterday, today, tomorrow, and every hour of what remains of our days.” He heaved a sigh, then took a long pull from his drink. “You and me, we’re in the same boat, and we each have a finger in the dyke. Remove it, and we’ll drown.”

Cullen looked down at his mug with a grimace. “How true those words be,” he agreed in a murmur. And they were, despite Boğa's idiomatic manner of speech. "The pressure builds, and all we can do is pray we do not break."

A heavy hand clapped on his shoulder, and Cullen looked up at Boğa’s scarred face. “Our fates are at least our own now,” the big man rumbled. “Nice change from before.”

“Aye, `tis.” Cullen contemplated his drink a moment more, then quaffed it in one long gulp.

“Careful there.” Boğa laughed when Cullen began to cough, pounding his back until the coughing stopped. “Not everyone can drink like Boğa can.” Taking Cullen’s empty container, he hefted a jug of brew from the ground to fill it up again. “A street brawl with the retinue of the Duke of Mantua will probably draw _some_ official interest. You two should stay out of sight for a few days. I know where all the rotten fish are buried. I’ll take care of you.”

Cullen’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “You have my thanks," he said with sincerity as he took the newly refreshed mug from the Turk.

Boğa’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “`Tis but my turn, lad. Last time `twas yours. We seem to have a bad habit of getting into trouble.” Sipping from his cup, he nodded towards Cullen. “Arm good?”

Glancing down at his arm where the blade had slice him, Cullen gave a shrug. “`Twill do. I have been injured far worse than this scratch.”

“Methinks I have heard you say such before - mayhap when you collapsed for a week,” Boğa pointed out, then grinned when Cullen scowled at him. “Ah, I had promised to make no mention of that again. I seem to have forgot said oath for the nonce.”

“Mark you remember in the future,” Cullen said with mock severity, nudging the big man with his elbow. His follow-up sally fell unforgotten from his lips as the stairs leading below creaked. Quickly he set his drink on the floor and stood, eyes upon the entrance to Boğa’s bolthole, well-concealed by a trapdoor which, when closed, appeared to be but another section of the floor. When it wasn’t Dorian who appeared, he frowned. “How fares he?”

Krem glanced over his shoulder down the stairs and shrugged. “Took care of the blood rose on his cheek and another stab he didn’t bother to tell anyone about. Silent fellow, for all that he’s Italian, too.”

 _“Stab?”_ Cullen asked, then made a frustrated sound and pushed past Krem to head down to the hidden room, ignoring the final exchange between Boğa and his friend.

“Lad’s fallen hard.”

“That he has, Chief.”


	8. Act IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Two Men Explore

The light dimmed as Cullen ducked into the bolthole, but there remained enough to see the man sitting on the mess of blankets piled atop some straw pallets. Face drawn in an expression of concern, Cullen stepped forward, hunching instinctively to protect his head from the low ceiling. “Dorian?” he ventured softly. “Is aught well?”

The man stirred, then turned to look up at Cullen. “I see someone has told tales of my health,” he said, managing a light tone.

Cullen sighed and settled onto the ground next to him. “And did he tattle thusly on mine as well?”

“What? You are injured?” Dorian turned to Cullen, a look of concern on his face. “Where?”

“Ah, so he did not,” Cullen chuckled, then pointed to his arm. “`Tis but a scratch, truly, and well tended. I have yet to hear more detail about your own.”

Settling his fingers lightly on Cullen’s sleeve, enough to feel the bandage beneath, Dorian made a soft noise of disgruntlement. “My shoulder only. Wrapped well by my countryman above. Interesting fellow,” he noted. “Are he and the Turk…?”

Cullen blinked, then laughed. “Those two? Nay, most definitely not. Just the bond of life’s blood owed more than anything, I should think. Krem helps Boğa live in London, where his kind are rarely welcome. At least Krem doesn’t stick out _quite_ as much as a Turk.”

That earned a chuckle from Dorian. “We do tend to attract attention, don’t we? Even the more subdued of my countrymen make the most animated Englishman appear as a corpse.”

“Tush! We are not nearly as bland as you do imply,” Cullen scolded. “Do you think me so very dull?”

“Ah, but you are an _actor,_ hmm?” Dorian teased him. “Who knows what you really are, hmm?”

There was… something in Dorian’s tone, a seriousness which belied the words, that gave Cullen pause. He struggled for a moment with how to respond, whether to simply let it slide, but in the end decided to address the matter. “Speak your mind.”

Dorian looked away, suddenly fascinated by the sacks of grain stacked neatly in the corner. “I do bear a certain pride in my chosen profession,” he said quietly. “Enough that only self-indulgent ignorance will allow me to not notice when someone is behaving in a manner not true to their nature. Earlier, when you confronted my father… `twas no facade or act.” Finally he looked back at Cullen, who wanted to dwell more upon the _self-indulgent ignorance_ part of Dorian’s comment, before his next words scattered that thought to the far winds. “You were a dangerous man. Or, as it may be… more than that.”

The words hung between them as Cullen took a deep breath. The eye contact proved to be too much, and soon he averted his gaze. “Aye. Far more.”

“Of all men, I shall be the last to judge you,” Dorian told him softly. “You need tell me nothing, I assure you. In fact,” he continued, deliberately lightening the tone, “`tis good to know that you came by your sword skill honestly rather than through the stage. I fretted over your talent, yet now, at least, I need not fear there is a secret school of superior sword skill here in England which puts any of the continent to shame.”

Cullen found himself chuckling. “A secret school of superior sword skill?” he asked incredulously.

“I have a way with words,” Dorian said, putting a modest hand on his chest. “I am an actor, after all.”

“And such a meek man elsewise, to be certain,” Cullen chuckled.

“Watch your tongue,” Dorian quipped. “Why, I am the epitome of humility and grace.”

“As you say,” Cullen said with a grin, relaxing a small amount, if not completely. The question had been broached, and, to Cullen’s mind, still hung between them… yet he simply was not prepared to discuss it yet. “I would argue ‘grace _and beauty’_ ‘twould be more accurate, but mayhap I am biased in the matter.”

A slow smile came to Dorian’s face, and he leaned close. “Glad am I to hear it,” he murmured. This close, even in the dim light, Cullen saw his eyes glance down, just before they closed as Dorian leaned in to claim a kiss.

Cullen’s own eyelids fell shut, and his arm reached around Dorian, pulling him closer. The edge of relief that Dorian’s wound wasn’t truly serious finally bled over into an overwhelming response to the events of the day. The caress of lips quickly turned from tender to intimate, and Cullen’s embrace became a means to lay them both down amidst the nest of blankets.

He recognized the urgency for what it was: danger and fear causing each to cling to the other, finding confirmation of life through touch which words simply could not provide. Passion, though tremendous, remained a poor substitute for the closeness they sought in each other now.

Alas, excitement could only carry them so far before exacting its own price at last. Once they were supine, Cullen felt Dorian’s movements slow. When the man stifled a yawn mid-kiss, Cullen simply chuckled and moved to kiss his forehead even as Dorian mumbled an apology. “The day has been most unforgivably long,” Cullen murmured. “I would not object to some sleep myself.”

“Truly, I am starting to wonder at what force works against us,” Dorian sighed in complaint. “Were I any less weary…” He continued to grumble as Cullen lay on his back and wrapped his arm around Dorian, pulling him close, and ended his tirade with, “...and sleeping in my clothes! Barbaric!”

Cullen just grinned as he let his head relax onto a small bag of buckwheat provided as a pillow. “Would you prefer naked?” he asked idly.

“Do not tempt me on the matter,” Dorian groaned softly as he lay his head on Cullen’s chest. “Mayhap I would, but am too tired to remove them.”

Cullen glanced down, unsure if the man were serious. When a wave of weariness washed over him, however, he simply patted Dorian’s hip and relaxed once more. “Let us to slumber. Mayhap later we can redress the matter.”

“I bloody well hope so, if you will forgive my English,” Dorian muttered under his breath.

With a smile, Cullen reached up and lightly brushed back Dorian’s thoroughly mussed hair from the man's forehead. “To sleep,” he said, close enough to slipping away himself that it came out half an order.

Dorian’s soft chuckle chased him into dreams. 

* * *

 

_Cullen braced himself as Alrik drew his hand back and then struck the man Cullen was restraining full across the face. “You_ will _tell us where the rest of them are, you know,” Alrik told the captive with a sneer. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a nice bonfire at Smithfield.”_

_“Mayhap let him stew a while?” Cullen suggested when he felt the man sag in his grip. “You should have pulled your blow that time.”_ Which you most assuredly know, _Cullen added grimly to himself._

_“Are you questioning my methods, Rutherford?” Alrik asked darkly. “We’re doing God’s work, with the Queen’s blessing. That means we do whatever it takes.”_

_Firming his jawline, Cullen nodded. “Mayhap there is a better method. Thrask and I believe--”_

_Alrik surged forward, his hand burying itself in Cullen’s shirt and pulling him close enough to smell Alrik's breakfast in his beard. “God’s work does not get done by the faint of heart, Rutherford.” He shook Cullen, then pushed him back, making him drop the man he held to the ground. “Now pick up that Protestant trash and get me someone who can still talk.” Turning away, he walked over to speak to some of the others, idly shaking out his hand as if getting it ready for the next round._

_As Cullen turned to gather the unconscious man Alrik had been ‘questioning’, he found Thrask already there, the crest of the Tudors woven into his doublet smudged with blood and dirt. “Alrik is…” Cullen started, then shook his head._

_Thrask simply nodded. “I know.” Heaving the Protestant onto his shoulder, he gestured Cullen closer. “We need to talk,” he said so quietly that Cullen, only two feet away, barely heard him._

_Cullen frowned slightly. “Aye, as you will,” he said with equal quiet. “We shall meet as before?” They’d slipped away in the dead of night to have an extended talk, and no one had seemed to notice._

_Thrask nodded. “As before.”_

_After that, they were silent as they took the man back to the holding cells. As Thrask lay the unconscious man down on a cot, Cullen moved to where a cluster of prisoners awaited interrogation or burning and pulled at the nearest arm. His stomach still churned, but he had God’s work to do, as Alrik kept reminding him._

“Cullen.”

_He started and stared down at the face of the man he’d grabbed. He found wide grey eyes above a curled mustache staring up at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. “Do I… know you?”_

“Wake up, Cullen!”

Cullen gasped and opened his eyes to complete darkness. He tensed when he realized a hand covered his mouth, but the warm weight pressed along his body coupled with a familiar tickle at his ear eased his concern.

As Cullen fought to regain control of his breathing, Dorian whispered, “I hear arguing above. Needs must we be silent.”

Cullen nodded to show he understood, and closed his eyes again, though it was a trifle unnecessary given the light was already extinguished. As he concentrated, he heard the voices to which Dorian referred above.

“The men were last seen in your company, Turk,” he heard an irritated voice say in accusation. “You either know where they are, or are harboring them yourself.”

Boğa grunted. “Mayhap you need to check your ears for some sort of excretion, as I have already informed you of their location. Away. And they were not foolish enough to tell me their destination.”

Cullen took a breath, then tapped Dorian’s hand, which pulled away. Rising into a crouch, he moved closer to the door so that he would be able to hear with more clarity. Soon after he felt Dorian press up against him, that damnable mustache again tickling at his ear. It took all his strength to suppress a shiver, but he could do little about the rush of blood, either above or below. Trying to ignore the sensation, he returned his focus to the conversation above, his heart sinking when he heard the stamp of feet.

“You break my floor, I’ll break your head,” Boğa warned, though he didn’t sound too concerned. “Or better yet, I’ll hire a crier and have him go stand in front of your boss’ house to tell London how you’ve been fornicating with his wife these past three years.”

The stomping immediately ceased. “You would not _dare.”_

_“Try_ me,” Boğa growled.

Cullen grinned, laughing silently as the man who had been threatened obviously struggled with the dilemma Boğa had given to him. Finally there was more stomping, but towards the direction of the door. As it creaked open, Cullen heard the man say, “To the docks! We’ll catch them before they sail out.” Then the door slammed shut, and there was silence.

Dorian exhaled slowly, having obviously held his breath, and put his head on Cullen’s shoulder. “That rules out the docks for a few days, then,” he said quietly.

They both tensed as more noise came from above, of something being moved across the floor before the hatch opened. A series of knocks made Cullen relax and turn to Dorian. “‘Boğa,” he explained as he rose slowly. “`Tis not the first time either of us have hid in a bolthole.”

Dorian chuckled and followed suit. “Mayhap later you could regale me, hmm?”

At that moment, the door opened, letting in Boğa with a dim lantern. “You two are awake. Good. So you heard all that?”

“Sufficient to be aware we need to remain hidden,” Cullen said with a nod.

Boğa grunted and set the lantern on a hook. “Needs must I venture forth and meet with some colleagues of mine, in the docks and other places. Krem is already taking a message to that friend of yours. Felix, right?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Aye. How did you-- Boğa, did I not request you remove your scrutiny from me?”

Unrepentant, Boğa shrugged his broad shoulders. “Be content that I did not, or your lover would be on his way back to Italy by now.” Ignoring Cullen’s sudden fierce blush and Dorian’s smile, he dropped a sack on the ground and then moved to rummage through some of the items in the room. Pulling out a brazier, he turned and set it near the bag. “There, in case you want to cook anything. I’m going to cover the hatch again in case Sir Curious returns, but I do not expect him to do so.” He pointed to one corner of the room. “If the need arises, then answer it. Lime and ash is there. I’ll check in on you when it’s safe, but you should have everything you need. I even threw in bandages and suchlike, if you need to change yours.”

“You have my gratitude, Boğa,” Cullen said sincerely. “I do not estimate this plight will last overlong. Two, three days, mayhap?”

“That is my hope. Anyhow, I will see you anon - I need to make sure those blundering fools have something to find which is not you, yet still believe they fulfill their duties.” With a final grin and a nod, he turned and ducked through the comparatively small doorway, and soon enough they heard the hatch lower into place, followed by the sound of carpet and furniture shifted to cover it once more.

“I quite like him,” Dorian observed with an easy laugh.

Cullen nodded and knelt next to the bag, removing and setting aside most of the contents as he made a mental tally. “Boğa is quite the clever man. I was most fortunate to have made his acquaintance, particularly given the circumstances at the time.”

“I admit to a certain curiosity as to the meeting,” Dorian observed idly. “A Turk and an Englishman? It must have been a most unusual situation.”

_God’s blood._ Cullen froze, realizing he’d inadvertently led the conversation precisely to that which he wanted to avoid. His eyes closed, and he bowed his head for a moment. “Aye, `twas.”

He started when a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to find Dorian crouching at his side. “You do not have to tell me,” the man said softly. “This I swear. Yet I do not wish it to become a shadow between us which you cannot banish, either.”

_Between… us?_ He couldn’t help but enjoy Dorian’s use of the term, yet it wasn’t enough to ease what was necessary. Breathing in deeply through his nose, he pushed his breath out through his mouth before nodding. “Aye, you have the right of it..” He glanced at Dorian, then frowned when he noticed the way the man kept his arm tucked close to his body despite the awkward position. “How fares your injury?”

“Sharp eyes,” Dorian accused him. “It pains me a little, I confess.”

Grabbing the bandage and a small skin of the stuff he recognized as Boğa’s wound cleaner, he nodded back to the blankets. “Come, we can attend to both at once.”

Dorian reached out to hook his finger in Cullen’s collar. “Only if we are both equally clothed.”

“Come,” Cullen repeated through the burning of his cheeks. “It shall be as you say.”

A few minutes later saw them both sitting on the blankets, naked from the waist up, as Cullen dressed Dorian's wound again. While he worked, Cullen spoke softly. “I was a soldier for Her Majesty Queen Mary, designated to enforce the Heresy Acts by order of the Queen and by the will of God.” It was the bare beginning, and it might have served well enough on its own, but Cullen felt compelled to continue. He spoke of hunting down Protestants, of the questionings, of the burnings - and worse. “I believed with all my heart for a long while that we did God’s work,” he said softly. “And God blessed the Queen, did He not? Surely `twas divine right.”

“Having grown up only a few hundred miles from the Papal Seat, I can understand such reverence.” Dorian regarded Cullen’s face, his brows drawing together. “You continue to surprise me. I never would have thought you a Catholic.”

“Nor I you, save that I know from whence you came,” Cullen pointed out.

“True enough, I suppose.” Dorian reached over and laid his hand on Cullen’s thigh, squeezing lightly in comfort. “Go on. This has to do with how you met Boğa, does it not?”

Cullen nodded. “A new Captain was sent out to watch over my squad, a man by the name of Otto Alrik. It became clear that he was there because he enjoyed it - the hunts, the burning, and especially the questioning. It was getting harder by then to get a sentence, you see, and he… found ways. To make them confess, to make others confess… My doubts grew greater, as did those of a friend of mine, another of the Queen’s soldiers by the name of Thrask. I did abide, however. I had sworn my oath to God and Queen and England. But then Thrask pulled me aside one e’en.” He swallowed, and his hands, in the process of wrapping the new bandage around Dorian’s shoulder, froze. “He informed me that his daughter was Protestant, and had been taken. By Alrik.” He swallowed, the bile fighting to rise. “Personally.”

When he fell silent, Dorian did not prompt him to continue. Instead, Dorian finished the work on his own shoulder, then slid closer to Cullen, wrapping an arm around his waist without saying a word.

Eventually Cullen spoke. “Thrask and I tracked him down to his… his _lair._ `Tis the only word I can use. We slew him and others who were with him. We got her out of there, though I daresay she shall never again walk in a proper fashion3. I was injured, though.” He pointed to the scar which marked his upper lip, then the one which slashed down the left side of his chest. “I told him to go on ahead, that she was the priority. When they found the dead men, `twas my trail they followed first. Caught up to me near Smithfield, outside London.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian interrupted. “A rather large individual came to your rescue, I take it?”

Cullen smiled at the description. “Krem once said that `twas the same way for their first meeting, as well. A poor habit, so he says. A great habit, according to Boğa.”

Dorian laughed. “I find I cannot complain, given the results.”

“Nor I,” Cullen agreed. “At any rate, Boğa convinced me that acting would be the most suitable occupation to hide from any pursuit.”

An immaculate eyebrow rose. “And what, pray tell, was his reasoning? I would have considered that to be the exact opposite pastime to select for someone wishing to remain out of the public eye.”

Cullen grinned. “His reasoning was that new actors, particularly poor ones, rarely are selected to be put before an audience, but at least that way I would be seen frequently by many while being the intimate of a select few.”

A thoughtful expression came to Dorian’s face. “A cogent argument,” he conceded.

“Once Elizabeth took the throne, God bless her, I stopped pretending to be such a poor actor and actually was able to sustain myself. From there, you can draw the lines yourself, I would surmise.” Cullen sighed, surprised at how much better he felt to have the truth laid bare between them. “And that is that. Until Felix gave me a paper concerning a certain up-and-coming Italian actor, I had a relatively mundane existence as a moderately successful actor, my past well and truly forgotten by all but myself.” _And my nightmares._

“And what,” Dorian asked, moving closer, “did your acquisition of that paper signify?”

Cullen paused, contemplating the explanation. “The man Felix first met… was not a man of whom I am proud. `Twas luck, not fortune, which brought me to his side, and `twas his honest heart which brought him to mine after.” Cullen couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “We’ve helped each other a great deal since he first arrived in London. He is a rare man.”

“Aye, that he is,” Dorian said softly. “My greatest regret following my departure from Italy was leaving him. He has the most gentle spirit of any man of my acquaintance.” He sighed. “His father would be more like him, save for the weight of his title. And my father--” His mouth snapped shut, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “But enough of that. Tell me more about this paper you mentioned.”

“No quarter given, no evasion allowed?” Cullen smiled as Dorian’s eyes opened. “You are a cruel man.”

“And yet you persist in delaying the answer,” Dorian said, then nudged Cullen. “Unless you fear to vouchsafe it to me.”

For a moment more, Cullen considered the matter, slowly finding the words and fitting them neatly into his head. Finally he turned and took Dorian’s hand, bringing it up to his heart. “There was a time when I fell into the depths of depravity, seeking to numb myself from what I had seen, and the acts I had performed. `Twas easy to pretend to be the struggling actor in such a case, when mine eyes would not focus `pon the face of the man but two feet away. Yet I tired of that, and the paper… it gave me hope.”

Cullen gently brought Dorian’s hand up so he could place a tender kiss upon the knuckles. “When Felix first made of it a gift to me, he said it was proof that a man could escape his past, could rise above any shackle or chain which held him down. I held to the words, though I knew not the details behind them, and did cling to that image with a fierceness which carried me through the times when I wished to fall back into the mud. At first, I knew only that the smudged coal profile represented a man who had done what I wished to do. As time passed, as I left behind the debauchery and degradation, it came to mean more. I know not when regard turned to fascination, but I cannot deny that the yearning became for more than merely a hope for a similar escape. I tell you true, `twas no rhyme nor reason beyond inchoate yearning. Never before had a man turned my head, nor any woman. I thought myself unworthy of such regard, given my past deeds.”

“And is that yet your belief?”

The question made Cullen look up to find Dorian regarding him with a gentle smile. “Mayhap I could learn elsewise,” he said in a hushed tone.

“Mayhap I might be acquainted with the perfect mentor for such an endeavor.” Dorian’s thumb smoothed over the stubble on Cullen’s chin. “Yet I interrupt. Pray continue.”

Cullen couldn’t help but smile at the touch, even as his cheeks heated once more. “Ah, then came the day when Felix informed me that you would be in London. Of a sudden, all of those hopes and ambitions flew together in a rush. I was determined to meet with you, to see for myself what manner of man you were, and that determination flared into something unexpected when I did lay mine eyes upon you.” He stopped and looked down at the hand clasped in his own, wondering if Dorian could see his blush resurge in the dim light.

“Can you give a name to this unanticipated sensation?” Dorian asked.

“Desire,” Cullen said, voice soft yet firm. “Unexpected, unanticipated, unbidden… and unmistakable.”

Dorian pulled their joined hands towards him so he could lay a soft kiss in Cullen’s palm. “Verily, then we are not so dissimilar from each other after all.”

Cullen’s heart raced, and not only for the soft lips which now caressed his fingers. “I am no gently born lord, nor scion of a wealthy house. I am rough-hewn and ill-used, and have little to offer a man of your talent and breeding.”

Though the man didn’t immediately answer, Cullen knew Dorian had heard him by the way his breath stopped for a moment before he drew back a bit. Tilting his head as he looked down at Cullen’s hand, Dorian murmured, “Mayhap I seek not a marble statue come to life, but a man with an understanding of the nature of a life ill-suited to him. A man to hold, but also a man who can support.” His long fingers stroked over Cullen’s hand slowly. “These callouses linger from deeds far heavier than tilling the soil or moving a backdrop.”

“Aye, that they do,” Cullen confirmed, a bit taken aback by the seeming tangent.

“Most men of _talent and breeding,_ in my experience, prefer…” Dorian paused, then exhaled a shuddering breath. “They seek not a partner, someone of whom they can be proud, or taken to the proper parties, or to church. Nay, men of talent and breeding only want another man for pleasure. A dirty, dark secret that can never mean more than a night, or a few nights, of sexual bliss.” When he looked up at Cullen, his eyes were haunted. “A decorative piece to hang on your arm at certain kinds of _im_ proper parties, if he be comely enough. And if you be a lord, and he but a lord’s son, mayhap that pretty lord's son would be but an ornament to be shared with another lord. After all, it is a party, and parties are for pleasure, and nothing more.”

Cullen instinctively reached out and dared to brush his fingers through Dorian’s hair, mussed as it was from sleep. “You shall never return to that,” he told Dorian in a fierce tone. “Not while I have breath.”

Though his eyes gleamed suspiciously in the dim light of their lantern, Dorian chuckled softly, biting his lower lip so that his teeth tickled at the little patch of hair just below it. “God knows what you must think of me now, what with this entire affair. It could end so very poorly for both of us, if Father has his way.” He looked up at Cullen, brows pinched together and gaze serious. “I do not know if I could forgive myself, if aught happened to you because of who I am.”

“Not who you are,” Cullen insisted, pulling their hands back to himself so he could do as Dorian had and partake of the sweet sweat of his palm. “You are the man you have chosen to be. That I believe with all my heart.”

“Then I have no choice but to think the same of you, _tesoro,"_  Dorian murmured, leaning closer as he claimed Cullen’s second hand and brought it to his lips. Cullen shivered as the mustache brushed over his knuckles, and a flush of warmth washed over him as the man’s delectably soft mouth pressed against them. “And you have chosen wisely.”

“Have I, in very deed?” Cullen murmured, unrepentant now with his own staring at the man.

A wicked mirth danced in Dorian’s eyes as he met Cullen’s gaze, and he abandoned the hand to lean closer. “You are with me, are you not?” Dorian murmured.

Cullen shuddered as his eyes closed. “You… You make a sound argument,” he managed.

“I would argue,” Dorian whispered, his breath pouring over Cullen’s lips, “that my preference would be for you to _make_ a sound.” For the barest moment, Cullen felt soft lips touch his, and then they moved along his cheek as Dorian’s arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him abruptly closer. Cullen gasped as Dorian’s hushed tones and devilish mustache teased at the shell of his ear. “A multitude of rather _loud_ ones.”

When Dorian’s hand landed on his thigh and a strong thumb stroked downwards, Cullen gasped, “God’s blood!”

“My interest lies more in yours,” Dorian breathed as his hand slowly moved up Cullen’s leg in a firm stroke. “And where it is flowing at the moment.”

Cullen instinctively splayed his legs a bit wider, inviting Dorian to further intimacy _._ His heart was pounding hard, yet not due to the touch alone. Knowing that Dorian still desired him, felt that Cullen was worthy of that kind of attention even after he had revealed so much, it made his breath shorten and his heart swell. When Dorian’s hand nudged against his codpiece, he moaned softly. Dorian’s lips began to move along his cheek, the brush of his lips matched below by the slow caress of his fingers along Cullen’s length through the fabric.

When Dorian’s lips claimed his, Cullen’s fingers tightened in the man’s hair to pull them ever so slightly closer. When roaming fingers pulled that damned bit of cloth out of the way and settled around what it found beneath with a firm squeeze, Cullen’s hips jerked forward as he moaned into Dorian’s mouth.

“Aye,” Dorian breathed, “precisely that sort of sound.”

Whatever reply Cullen might have made was deflected as they both heard the door open above and footsteps of at least two people enter. Both of the men held their breath as the footsteps crossed the floor, and then they heard the sound of scraping furniture once more as the trapdoor was revealed.

_“Testa di cazzo,”_ Dorian said fervently as he tugged Cullen’s codpiece back into place while glaring upwards, _“prendila in culo da un ciuccio imbizzarrito!”_

“I have not a clue as to what you just said, but I agree wholeheartedly,” Cullen groaned as he forced himself to stand. After some quick adjustments, he grabbed one of the swords hanging from the hook next to the entrance and tossed it to Dorian, who caught it easily, before taking the other one and drawing it from its sheath, listening as the men came down the stairs. When the curtain was pulled aside, his sword was ready, pressed against the leading man’s neck before they got more than a foot inside. “Remove your hood,” he said softly, “or I press the blade home.”

“Cullen,” the man breathed as he reached up slowly with his hand and flung the hood back, revealing a flushed Felix. “No time to waste, you have to go.”

“Felix?” That was Dorian, who rushed forward to catch him as the man sagged.

“He’s right,” Krem called from behind Felix. “We have to go, now. Little bird gave me a tip, one I trust.”

Cullen nodded, not wasting any more time as he sheathed the blade and attached it to his pants. He quickly put everything they might need into the pack Boğa had brought down and slung it over his shoulder, given they didn’t know what was to come, but there was no further argument.

As they emerged from below, Boğa was just entering through the front door, arm full of cloth. Tossing both men a large cloak, he said, “Put these on. I’ve a friend who will aid you. Krem’ll take you there.”

“But Felix--” Cullen started, even as he and Dorian quickly put on the voluminous cloak.

“I’m staying with him,” Felix said, pointing to Boğa. “Don’t have the breath to keep up. Might as well be useful. Mayhap I can even prevent bloodshed, if they’re countrymen.”

Boğa grunted as Cullen frowned. “Don’t worry about us, boy. I don’t believe in throwing lives away. You know that. We just need to buy you some time. Speaking of which, move. Now.” He stepped aside, and Krem headed to the door.

“Felix,” Dorian said softly, slowing as he passed his friend to grasp his forearm.

“Heft a drink for me, Dorian.” Felix squeezed Dorian’s arm firmly. “And have faith.” Reaching out, he tugged the hood of Dorian’s cloak into place, then pushed Dorian after Cullen.

When the men were out of the door, Krem gestured them to follow. After only a few dozen paces, Krem suddenly grabbed both men and pulled them into the narrow space between two buildings whose roofs were so close as to touch each other. All three men pressed into the side of the building, and Cullen was grateful for Krem’s sharp eyes as he heard the approaching footsteps.

A crowd of men walked by, faces grim in the flickering light of the torches they held. Cullen tried to get more than a passing impression of them, but they moved so quickly that they were out of sight before he could get more than an impression of the sigil on the arms of their uniforms, but it was enough of a glimpse to confirm that the Duke had tracked them down.

Dorian’s reaction as he hissed, _“Stronzo,”_ was easy to comprehend, even if Cullen did not know the word.

“Our departure was well timed,” Krem said softly. “Press on.” He moved away from the wall, leading them deeper into the warrens of the buildings around Boğa’s house.

Cullen and Dorian exchanged a glance before following. As they followed Krem, Cullen felt a hand seek his out, and he quickly took hold of the offering and squeezed it. “I am here for you,” he said quietly, and heard the other man take a shaky breath as he nodded.

_“Grazie, tesoro._ That means… a great deal to me, right now.”

Both men fell silent after that, their hands never straying far from the other’s as they wended their way through the dark London night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italian translations:**
> 
> _Testa di cazzo_ \- Lit: 'Head of a penis', or dickhead  
>  _Prendila in culo da un ciuccio imbizzarrito_ \- Lit: 'Take it in your ass from a runaway donkey'. Dorian was a bit upset.  
>  _Grazie, tesoro_ \- Lit: 'Thank you, treasure', but _tesoro_ is better translated to 'darling'


	9. Interlude IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which They Find Surcease

As Dorian’s breath slowed into that of true slumber, Cullen sighed and staggered back from the bed. Glancing at the servant who had helped redress the sleeping man’s wounds, he said quietly, “Is the master of the house yet awake?”

The servant bobbed her head, moving towards the door with a glance back at Cullen in an invitation for him to follow.

Resisting the urge to run his fingers through Dorian’s tousled hair, Cullen grabbed his shirt on the way from the room, his own recently re-bandaged arm still aching fiercely as he followed her down the narrow steps. She led him to a large, warm room with a fire that still blazed despite the lateness of the night. After bobbing a respectful curtsy, she left, leaving Cullen to approach the large chairs in front of the fire. “I wish to thank you for your aid, Master,” he ventured, glancing around for Krem but not finding him.

A rugged, somewhat handsome man peered around the back of one of the chairs, his short hair tied back in a queue. “Ah, she brought one of you down. You both seemed on the point of collapse upon your arrival, so I was unsure I would meet either of you tonight.” With a chuckle, he gestured to the other chair. “I sent Krem back to Boğa to let him know you two were safe. You’ve had a rough night of it, I take it?”

Cullen offered the man a smile as he sat down, carefully taking in his appearance with a practiced eye. He was short of stature, but broad of shoulder, and his doublet and shirt were both open to expose a large expanse of chest from which a nest of curled hair sprung. A quill and pen rested upon some paper on a small desk beside him, hinting at a man of learning - a scholar, mayhap? “Aye. We were accosted by brigands, then chased through the streets until we managed to evade them. Our wounds were aggravated by the run, and Dorian’s was worse than mine. He sleeps now, else he would offer his gratitude as well, Master…?” His voice trailed off as he waited expectantly.

The man grunted. “Krem forgot to mention that little detail, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised. Name’s Varric, Varric Tethras.” He looked at Cullen, his hands rising to steeple in front of his face. “And you are Cullen of Rutherford. And he’s Dorian of Italy, though I won’t go into too much more detail there.”

Cullen grew wary, troubled at the ease with which the man plucked facts from the air. “How do you--”

“Know so much?” Varric asked, eyebrow raising, before his finger moved to rest upon one of his temples. “Many delicate matters here abide. Those of you and yours are only some of them. On occasion those matters turn from delicate to _inconvenient_ for a time. That’s when Boğa helps me out. `Tis time to repay one of those favors I owe him for such assistance.”

After a few moments of mulling, Cullen said, “You would be the little bird, then?”

Varric gave Cullen a subtle wink and tapped his nose. “All I ask in exchange is that you tell me everything.” He reached over and patted the paper. “`Twill become a tale none would believe, and then you and Dorian can pass into obscurity. Who believes stories are actually true, hmm? No one.”

Intrigued by the idea, Cullen leaned forward with interest on his face. “And how does that work?”

“I tell the town criers what to say, and give the actors their words. My tales grace the tongues of all the best gossipmongers in the city, and from London they go to all parts of the continent and beyond, even unto the heralds of Italy  And no one believes a story is _true_ \- but they’re fun to talk about. Give me a month, and everyone will know the story of the estranged son of the Duke of Mantua who escaped into the fog of the English countryside with his lover at his side - yet no one will _believe_ it.” Varric grinned and settled back into his chair. “Trust me. It has been done many times before. Sometimes fame _is_ the best obscurity.”

“Name one example,” Cullen challenged him.

Varric grinned. “Ever heard of a fellow by the name of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, he’s just a story,” Cullen dismissed, then paused and thought about the seemingly simple question for a long while. Finally he nodded to Varric with grudging admiration. “I admit to being impressed.”

“`Tis a longstanding tradition, and I but the most recent wordsmith. So fret you not, Curly.” Varric chuckled when Cullen reached up self-consciously to comb through his messy hair. “I have ways of making it all work out for the best.”

A thunderclap abruptly tore through the air, and Cullen startled. “God’s blood, a storm?”

“Aye. The tempest has been building these last few hours. Fortune favored you to arrive before it struck.” He settled back into his chair and pulled the pad of paper onto his lap. “You should go up and get some sleep. I can get all the details from you on the morrow. From both of you.”

Cullen nodded, too tired to disagree. “Anon, then,” he said to the man, yawning as he stumbled his way to the door.

He eventually found his way back to the room where he’d left Dorian after a misadventure with a broom closet and a hissing tawny cat. Shutting the door behind him, he shrugged off his shirt, corset, and stockings without much thought. Left only in breeches and codpiece, he rounded the bed and used the last of his wakefulness to slip under the blankets without disturbing Dorian. Once that was done, he relaxed upon the bed with a great sigh, then closed his eyes.

A moment before he slipped into slumber, an arm encircled his waist, and warmth pressed against the length of his body. Something tickled at his ear, and he _thought_ he heard, _“Dormi, tesoro.”_

Comprehension wasn’t necessary to ensure the smile on his face lingered long past the moment he lost consciousness.


	10. Act V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Two Men Find Their Home

The blanket of sleep was difficult to put aside the next day. Cullen approached the state of wakefulness slowly, at first only aware that he was not in his own bed since he was _far_ too comfortable for that. A vague impression of delightful dreams lingered, and he shifted his hips as remnant images floated through his mind and made a smile come to his lips.

“Pleasant dreams, I take it?” a voice murmured from near at hand.

Cullen didn’t open his eyes, but the smile grew wider. “Not as pleasant as the sound of your voice so very early in the morn,” he said, not really thinking before saying the words. They merely felt… apt.

Warmth pressed up against him, from shoulder to toe, and Cullen made an appreciative sound as fingers traced his jawline. “Enchanting words, _tesoro._ It makes me wonder if you are truly awake yet.” The fingers moved down his neck, then ventured farther, exploring the muscles they found on Cullen’s chest.

“Mmmf, not particularly,” Cullen said with a soft chuckle. “Certainly feels like a dream.” He wanted to open his eyes, he honestly did, but that voice and that touch… Surely this _was_ a dream. Best not to risk it by lifting his heavy eyelids. “Too good to be real,” he mumbled.

He heard a low, throaty chuckle and felt lips press against his cheek, a hint of a tickle above them from a mustache. “You’re quite beautiful when you sleep. The peace which comes over you is a wonder to witness. The lines of care on your forehead,” two gentle fingers lightly stroked across his brow, “they disappear entirely.”

Cullen was having difficulty really paying attention to the words, since the hand had returned to his torso and was now venturing ever downwards. “Mayhap `tis due to the company,” he said, turning his face towards Dorian, though his eyes remained closed tight. When the hand reached top of his breeches and paused, he bit his lip and breathed in sharply through his nose.

“Mayhap,” Dorian conceded. Cullen gasped as he felt a hard palm smooth over the ache of his morning need. “Or mayhap `tis due to whatever dreams created this. Would you be prepared to describe such delights to me?”

After a shuddering gasp and a reflexive push upwards of his hips, Cullen managed a breathy chuckle. “Does such as that truly require explanation?” Now his eyes opened, to find Dorian’s face inches from his own. His hand reached up to caress the man’s cheek, thumb chasing the rather ragged curl of his mustache. “`Twas you, surely you must know this. There can be no other.”

The adoring smile which answered those words quite took Cullen’s breath away. “The things you say,” Dorian murmured, then leaned in to claim Cullen’s lips for a kiss both tender and lingering, even as Dorian’s fingers deftly plucked at the stays which held Cullen’s codpiece in place and pulled it aside to be lost under the blanket.

As Dorian’s hand wrapped around his length and squeezed lightly, Cullen moaned into the kiss and pushed upwards against that most delicious of grasps. After that first squeeze, though, Dorian simply explored, his fingers trailing a path up and down the firm shaft with an almost teasing touch that made Cullen squirm. When the kiss came to an end, Dorian’s mouth moved away from Cullen’s, his tongue darting out to momentarily tease the light scar on Cullen’s upper lip. Then the lips and the tickling line of hair above them moved along Cullen’s jawline towards his ear, where they paused for a moment.

Cullen was more than awake now, each delicate flick and scrape of a fingernail and hot breath on his skin causing a surge of pleasure. In desperate measure to counter his body’s rising heat, he grasped the blanket and yanked it aside to provide a momentary relief. Meanwhile his other arm burrowed under Dorian’s body and wrapped around the man, smoothing down his back and searching for the line between flesh and cloth… and finding none.

As his hand landed on a taut, toned, and very _bare_ lower cheek, he felt the muscle flex under his palm as Dorian chuckled. “On occasion, I become quite heated during the night, particularly when the company is so very…” Dorian’s hand wrapped around Cullen and slowly tugged upwards, his thumb swiping over the tip to obtain that extra bit of moisture to ease the same motion in reverse. “...delectable.”

Cullen swallowed harshly. He rarely slept in such a state of undress, but he suddenly could not picture a thought more arousing than being like unto Dorian in the matter. “‘Would it not be… uncouth were I not to join you in such an endeavor?” he asked, even as his hips moved in a desperate circle to counter Dorian’s touch below.

“Oh, so very uncouth, _tesoro_. Why, I would be forced to take extreme measures were you not to consider the option,” Dorian said.

Before Cullen could inquire after those intriguing _measures,_ Dorian’s teeth and lips closed around his earlobe, and a ragged gasp escaped Cullen’s lips. It also provided just that extra bit of spark he needed to push back at Dorian, turning them over so that the man lay beneath him. For a moment, he admired the outline of his hand on the man’s darker skin, but the moment passed swiftly as Cullen leaned down and seized Dorian’s lips in a none-too-gentle kiss. Settling his leg between Dorian’s and using it to maneuver one of them to the side, Cullen rolled his hips, pressing in so that their shafts rubbed firmly against each other. His morning ache acquired a new note of desperation as this time it was Dorian who moaned softly into the kiss and lifted hips to repeat the motion.

Cullen kept himself supported with one hand as his other worked feverishly at the stays for his breeches, hips still moving in that inexorable dance with Dorian’s. Their lips sought and found each other _most_ of the time, though naturally some straying was inevitable. The resulting livid marks would, by fortune’s favor, be concealed by doublet and ruffled collar, and remain as delicious reminders of this morning’s activities.

Yet the fervent kisses and ardent nibbling quickly became but a subdued note in the growing chorus of need and desire. When Cullen finally simply tore away his bothersome breeches, Dorian’s hand moved to the space between their bodies, gathered some of the slickness he found there, and wrapped around both lengths with evident purpose. Cullen groaned, yet his hips did not stop their motion by even the smallest amount. Neither, thankfully, did Dorian’s, and as their breaths grew shorter and their skin acquired a certain sheen, Cullen found his lips returning to meet Dorian’s own as his hands buried themselves in the man’s hair.

When he felt the the small death approach, he tore his lips away and pressed their foreheads together so he could feel the man’s hot breath and see his face for as long as it was possible to keep his eyes open. _“Dorian,”_ he panted, attempting to convey with that one word the depth of his need and the urgency of his desire.

The Italian’s breathing was ragged, and he just gave a short, quick nod. _"Si, si,"_ he gasped in return. Cullen suddenly arched his back and stifled a small cry as the man’s grip shifted subtly, and what had been inevitable suddenly arrived with a tremendous wave of _now._ His hips dug in deeply, meeting a similar motion from Dorian, and together they shared a moment of breathless bliss.

When the strength of Cullen’s elbow finally gave out and he half-fell to the side, Dorian chased him with a soft, husky laugh. The string of tender, tiny kisses which followed utterly destroyed Cullen, and for a time he lost himself in sensuous touches of fervent worship both given and received. Eventually, though, even that ceased, and they lay limp, each chasing after their respective breaths.

After a while, he reached blindly behind him and retrieved his breeches, pausing when he felt Dorian tense. “Is aught amiss?” he asked before using the poor, torn garments to clean up as much of the remnants of their passion as he could before throwing them to the floor. _I pray Varric will be able to acquire some more for me,_ he sighed, though there was not a moment of regret in the thought.

When Dorian still hadn’t answered, Cullen moved closer and gently pushed the man onto his back again, then curled up next to him with his head resting on Dorian’s shoulder. As he drew the blanket up to cover both of them once more, he glanced up at Dorian and frowned slightly when he saw the man’s expression. Suddenly concerned, he reached up and stroked Dorian’s cheek. “Are you peaked?”

“I… Nay, I…” Dorian cleared his throat, then suddenly leaned in for a fierce kiss.

When their lips parted, Cullen smiled up at him. “You did worry me, with your visage of doom and dire.”

“When you reached for your breeches, for a moment…” Dorian reached down and attempted to set Cullen’s hair to rights, though he would soon find that to be impossible. “For a moment, I thought you meant to leave.”

Cullen’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mayhap to locate the privy, but no more. And not for a while. I am quite undone at this moment.”

Dorian chuckled at that, and his fingers moved down to stroke Cullen’s cheek. “`Tis only that… I am accustomed to waking alone, or being left once certain… vigor has been exercised. I was - _am_ \- uncertain as to whether you would be the same.”

For a moment, Cullen worked through those words. “Am I to understand that this is not what you desire, then? For me to depart?”

He heard Dorian’s breath catch in his throat, and then the man closed his eyes, the tension returning to him. “Nay,” he confessed in hushed tones.

Cullen smiled and moved up enough that he could take Dorian’s lips with a tenderness which he hoped conveyed his own will on the matter. When his pulse began to race and lower parts of his body reminded him that it was _far_ too soon for these sorts of activities, he pressed his forehead to Dorian’s and caressed that poor ragged curl of a mustache with a gentle touch. “Then I shall not. I swear to you, I would stay at your side as long as you would have it so.”

Dorian shivered as his eyelids fluttered closed, and his arm rose to circle around Cullen’s waist. “That may be quite a time, indeed. Years, perchance.” He pulled Cullen closer, then, burying his head in the crook of the man’s shoulder. “Mayhap longer.”

“I foresee no hardship,” Cullen said softly.

Dorian drew in a shuddering breath. “I do not fully understand,” he confessed softly. “Ne’er before have I felt this fierce need for more.”

“More than the pleasure of an hour or a night?” Cullen asked.

“Aye. In Italy, as I have previously spoke, the heart could not be involved. Pleasure was as pleasure did, and after that moment you went your separate ways for fear of the eyes of the Church and the law falling upon you, since they are much the same in my homeland. Indeed,” Dorian said, tone turning bitter as he let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling, “my father would claim he but sought to save me from such a perilous fate with what he did. A wife would ensure my respectability, secure the future of the family, present me to the world as I was meant to be - the perfectly obedient and God-fearing son of the Duke of Mantua."

Cullen couldn’t help it - he reached up and stroked Dorian’s cheek, turning the man’s face to look at him. “Thanks be to God he did not succeed.”

Dorian’s expressive face showed subtle anger and sorrow both. “Alexius once told me that he was a better man before he became Duke, my father, but to be ruler of Mantua is to dance the line between many opposing forces. And as I was told so often in my youth, to do so requires sacrifice. Mayhap even one’s own son.”

“What did he do?” Cullen asked. “Though I know for certain I will not like the answer.”

“He sent me to a lovely little crumbling monastery with a paid-for priest and his hired _mercenari_ for… cleansing. Purging. Whatever you want to call a man’s attempt to exorcise demons which don’t exist.” Dorian’s eyes widened slightly at the memory, and his pupils constricted, signs Cullen all too readily recognized as a memory of pain. “Father is a rich man, and some priests, even in Italy, are desperate for patronage.”

Cullen closed his eyes and breathed deeply, instinctively wrapping his arm around Dorian. “How did you endure?” he asked softly.

Dorian snorted softly and again focused intently on the ceiling. “I absolutely refused to give my Father the satisfaction of victory,” he declared. “And after biding my time, I was able to make my escape, and was taken in by a traveling _thiaso_. You can probably imagine that some there were sympathetic to my plight. That was… two years ago? Three?” His breath caught in his throat as he sighed. “It took a long time for Father to track me down. Mantua lives and dies by its alliances, though, and he _needs_ that alliance with the Medici. Yet never could I go back and live that lie.”

He paused, then looked down at Cullen. “You know precisely how it is,” he murmured. “To live knowing that every action, every thought, is a falsity and a corruption of your own self. It is…” he paused, searching for the most apropos description.

“A poison. One that etches your very soul,” Cullen agreed softly as his eyes closed for a moment. “And one not easily recovered from, either.”

“Aye.” Dorian’s finger gently lifted Cullen’s face, making Cullen look up at him and emerge from the darkness behind his eyelids. “One need not recover alone, however.”

Cullen lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, seeking to lighten the mood. That, and taking the excuse of looking up to glance at Dorian’s full lips and lick his own.

Dorian’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Oh, you are trying to tempt me, aren’t you?” he murmured, then lowered his lips to meet Cullen’s.

Both men started when a knocking came from the door. “Food ‘n’ such!” called a woman’s voice, followed by footsteps retreating down the hall.”

“At least I don’t feel _quite_ as murderous about an interruption,” Dorian noted, then pressed a kiss to Cullen’s forehead. “Remain as you are, _amore._ I shall attend to everything.”

As Dorian pulled himself from Cullen’s embrace and went to the door, Cullen leaned his head on his hand and admired the view thus given with a smile, even as something nagged at him. “I thought I was _t_ _esoroh_ _,”_ he remarked as Dorian reached the door.

Dorian chuckled, glancing back at Cullen and winked at him. “That, too,” he said, then edged the door open and looked down. “Ah. We have a most considerate host, it appears.” Before Cullen could ask for details, he pulled the door open some more and bent over. Cullen found himself quite unable to speak for a few moments as Dorian retrieved whatever had been left outside their door and brought it inside. “It appears to be clothes as well as food beneath. And… aye, I do believe he included the most important thing of all.” Setting the tray down on a small table, he retrieved a small object from it and turned to present it to Cullen with a smile of triumph. “A _comb_. Now if only we had some oil…”

The words dimmed Cullen’s chuckle before it could truly begin. “My pack, would you please bring it to me?”

“You wish to watch me traipse across the room in all my glory once more, hmm?” Dorian asked with a laugh. “Very well, if you insist, I shall indulge you.” He retrieved the pack and brought it back to the bed, depositing it next to the man still lying in it before leaning over to plant a soft kiss on his mouth. As he watched Cullen dig through the pack, he added, “And how, pray tell, did my nattering about a comb incite this search, hmm?”

“Not the comb. Oil,” he noted, pulling out a small flask, setting it aside, and then reaching in to pull out more. “Boğa put several kinds in here. I know not if it be a true replacement for what you normally use, but I know there would be at least lamp oil and olive oil in here, amongst others. Mayhap you know of the nature of the others. He is a great believer in over-preparedness.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow and picked up one of the flasks with a thoughtful expression on his face. Cullen glanced up from the pack in time to see the other man’s tongue emerge from his mouth and lightly run along his parted lips, and the sight was enough to make him blush even before Dorian observed in a slightly breathy tone, “I can think of far _better_ uses than mere hair control for at least one of these marvelous oils.”

“I do not take your mean--” And then, all at once, he _did,_ and the blush darkened even as a renewed ache awoke below. “God’s blood, Dorian, that was a cruel thought to place in my head at this precise moment.”

“Then I shall tease you anon rather than this moment,” Dorian said with a chuckle. He did gather the little flasks and jars, though, taking them back across the room to deposit on the table next to the comb, then returned with a steaming bowl and spoon to hand to Cullen. “We should eat. It has been a long time since that hurried repast we enjoyed when first we arrived at Boğa’s abode.”

“Aye.” Cullen sat up and took the food gratefully. It _had_ been a while, and he ate with a considerable amount of enthusiasm. Still, if his glances towards those little containers of oil were any indication, he was also _distracted_. After eating, they agreed it was past time to meet with their host, so they dressed and performed their respective ablutions whilst speaking of nothing in particular.

Yet the thought of all those little flasks lingered. 

 

* * *

 

Sated in more ways than one and with mustache returned to order, the two men finally emerged from their room in the early hours after the sun reached its peak. A convenient encounter with the maid informed them that the master of the house could be found in the upstairs window gallery. They found him there, ensconced in a chair, talking to a woman in the house across the street - there being about a foot between the window galleries of the two homes - and laughing as she explained with hopefully improbable gestures about an encounter she’d had in the tavern the night before. When she jabbed her forearm in the air and pulled her hand down along it in a clear sexual gesture, Dorian winced. “Rather… indelicate.”

Cullen agreed, but Varric was laughing heartily and said to the woman as they approached, “Well, she must be happy.”

“Oh, yeah, no doubt of that,” the blond woman replied more than a bit smugly. “Wants to see me again, she does.” She glanced back over her shoulder, then looked back to Varric. “Better get going, though. Don’t want to get caught, do I?” With a wink, she glanced down into the street, then slipped out of the window and squeezed between the galleries before dangling above the cobbles. After a moment, she dropped, landed with expert ease, and took off running.

Varric chortled as he closed his windows. “Don’t mind Sera,” he told them. “A bit enthusiastic, but she’s one of the best professional snitches in London, both in rumor and in baubles. She has a grudge against my erstwhile neighbor, and likes to leave suitably insulting but ribald notes in his study every week at this time. Serves the old bald-pate right.” He gestured the two men to take a seat in the other chairs in the galleries. “You both appear to be in much better spirits than when last I saw you. The clothes are a neat fit, then?”

“Better than those which we arrived in,” Dorian agreed. “I am not sure how we can ever repay you.”

Holding up a hand, Varric shook his head. “I pay Boğa and his crew plenty of protection money for… various activities. Whatever I do for you comes out of those costs, so I assure you, I can afford to be generous.” He grinned and put his hands behind his head as he sat back. “Not an offer everyone who comes to me can claim, I do assure you. You’ll have more than just the clothes on your back when I send you on your way.”

“And… where would that be, pray tell? You have us at rather a disadvantage at this point in time,” Dorian pointed out.

“As you might have surmised, I’m not just some storyteller tucked away in a modest part of London,” Varric said with a grin. Bringing his hands down to steeple in front of his face, he continued, “I have a lot of contacts, a lot of informants, and a lot of… let’s call them ‘business partners’. In other words, I know a lot of people who are very, very good at staying out of sight and out of mind of most of the world. Seems to me you could use something like that, at least for the short term.”

“To… disappear?” Dorian clarified.

“From _official_ notice, that is indeed the plan. That’s not hard to do, in all truth, but doing it in such a way you can still live in style? That takes connections.” Varric tapped his chest modestly. “Which, lucky you, come in the form of yours truly. And, since you’re saving me a lot of money on a high-end expense, I’m willing to help you out of your little situation.”

“What’s the catch?” Cullen asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

Varric shrugged slightly, settling his hands on the arms of his chair. _“Stay_ disappeared for a while. I can’t have you suddenly gaining prominence on a stage somewhere.”

With a little noise of exasperation, Dorian rolled his eyes. “Then what do you propose we do to support ourselves above a menial existence, or, as you put it, ‘live in style?' I refuse to live the life of a refugee. The _thiaso,_ at least, provided for basic creature comforts, and more.”

Waving his hand in a placating motion, Varric looked between the two of them as he exclaimed, “Hold your horses. I’ve already written your story.” Turning to Cullen, he said, “You will become just another actor from the back country who tried and failed to gain the attention of the Queen’s troupe. In desperation, you infiltrate Whitehall in a bid to attract official attention. You run into _him,”_ Varric said, pointing to Dorian, “as he is leaving Whitehall in a glorious rage after a falling out with his _thiaso_ following a performance before the Queen. Events proceed as might be expected, and you both decide to try your luck as traveling itinerant actors, playing to the crowds. Rumors follow you of mysterious pasts, but nothing comes of it, and you become moderately successful along the coast of England for your acts.”

_“Events proceed as might be expected?”_ Cullen echoed dubiously.

Varric chuckled. “Relax, Curly. I don’t go into too much detail. Enough to intrigue, not enough to indict, that’s my rule.”

“So if that’s the _story,_ what will we _actually_ do?” Dorian asked curiously, knowing that although his _thiaso_ wouldn’t blame him for what happened with his father, neither would they accept him back into the fold. Actors lived a precarious existence as it was, and Dorian’s heightened notoriety certainly was a burden they could not afford to bear.

“Something completely different,” Varric said with a beatific smile. “You’re going into business.”

Dorian blinked, obviously not expecting that answer. “I beg your pardon?”

“Business, specifically, the _printing_ business. I have an idea for certain types of books I want to produce, but so far none of the major printing houses will even touch them. So I’m going to have someone teach you how to use a printing press, and you’re going to run a publishing house for my works.”

“From acting to printing books,’” Dorian said, then suddenly laughed. “Oh, what would Father say? The son of the Duke of Mantua a mere merchant, peddling pathetic periodicals?”

“He would hate it, and because of that, you will quite enjoy it,” Cullen said with a smile.

“In very deed.” Smirking, Dorian turned to Varric. “An intriguing proposition. What sort of books, precisely, will we be responsible for peddling?"

Varric's lips spread into a wide grin. "Oh, the sort guaranteed to get a respectable Englishwoman's calling for the smelling salts  _after_ she's finished reading it for the third time. In private. If you understand my meaning."

After only a moment, Dorian's expression matched that of Varric. "I see." He reached up and smoothed his fingers along his perfectly curled mustache. "In other words, you want us to be the sweet death of--"

"--most of the literate people in England, yes." Varric raised an eyebrow. "Hopefully many times. Interested?"

"Beyond reason, yes. I'm quite sure neither your Queen's church nor my father's own would approve, and that simply... adds to the delight." Dorian chuckled, ignoring Cullen's fiery cheeks and furiously cleared throat. "When will all this be set into play?”

Varric glanced out the window, trying to gauge the position of the sun. “My colleague will arrive a few hours after dark, so you’ve got a while. The rest of your clothes and other items you will need should arrive in the meantime, but you have some time to expend.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “Do with the time as you like. I’ve some business to attend to in the city, or I’d suggest a game of cards.”

“Why do I feel as if I have somehow evaded a fate worse than death?” Dorian mused with a little grin.

“Probably because you have,” Varric said with a chuckle as he stood. He proved to be even shorter than Cullen had estimated, but no less powerful for all that. “I shall return anon. If you need aught, simply let the girl know, and she’ll get it for you. Gentlemen,” he said with a final nod of his head before heading at a brisk pace to the stairs.

Cullen and Dorian rose as well, Cullen leading the way as they moved to descend as well. Their hands reached out, and both men smiled as they found the other waiting, wanting. Glancing at Dorian, Cullen said softly, “Have you any ideas on how to fill our time?”

“Oh, I might have an idea or two,” Dorian murmured, then leaned over and whispered into Cullen’s ear, “all of them involving oil.”

Licking his lips, Cullen cleared his throat softly before glancing at Dorian out of the corner of his eyes. “Ah… the… thought did pass my mind. More than once, in point of fact.”

“Then,” Dorian said as his thumb smoothed over Cullen’s palm, “let us go explore, shall we?”

Cullen was only too eager and willing to follow him. 

 

* * *

 

Later - much later, in point of fact - when both men were covered in sweat and spend, with hair and mustache once more thoroughly mussed and dampened, Cullen again found himself snuggled close to Dorian, eyes half-closed as they enjoyed a series of long, slow kisses. Dorian’s fingers enjoyed dancing over Cullen’s arm and chest, whereas Cullen contented himself with toying with the hair leading down from the navel on Dorian’s firm abdomen. Every once in a while, Dorian would pull back from a kiss and simply watch Cullen with an adoring smile on his face. One of those times, he murmured, “Your appearance is enough to set my heart aflutter, _amore.”_

Cullen chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. “Oh? Why, precisely?”

Fingers tracing along each part as he spoke, Dorian murmured, “Cheeks flushed with extended exertion, lips dry from panting yet red and moistened with kisses, skin coated with perspiration from our activities, and hair completely pulled from its queue and loose on your shoulders in damp curls… Mmm, I could get attached to this, very much so.”

As Cullen started to respond, Dorian leaned down and kissed his parted lips, rendering Cullen speechless yet again. Finally Cullen managed to find a space to pull back long enough so he could reach up and cup Dorian’s face. “And I will admit a certain liking to a thoroughly ravaged mustache above your lips,” he said with a half-smile. “As a reminder of how it got to be that way.”

Dorian’s eyes twinkled. “Only for you,” he said with that tender smile. “Only for you will I come undone to such a degree.”

“Good,” Cullen said, then softly laughed. “The events of these past few days remain a whirl in my mind still. To go from being a bumbling fool forgetting how to bow with proper attention but five nights past to…” His fingers smoothed down Dorian’s chest to where it had previously been playing, and tugged on some of the hairs they found. “...this.”

Inhaling sharply, Dorian’s fingers sank into Cullen’s hair and pulled him into a rough kiss. “Persist in that activity, and I shall have no choice but to raise the stake,” he said, then tugged Cullen’s lower lip between his teeth before devouring the man until both were left breathless.

“Alas, we are out of oil,” Cullen mused.

“I can be _very_ creative when it is a matter of necessity,” Dorian assured him. “Though I do believe you will appreciate the final outcome. When you awaken."

Cullen pushed himself up on his elbow so he could look down at Dorian, then slowly grinned. And tugged.

And learned that Dorian could be  _very_ creative, if it were a matter of necessity.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which the Storyteller Muses on his Muse

Varric stared at the fire with his fingers steepled in front of his face, lost in thought as the tempest again raged outside the house. The story had been written, the words flung to the four winds of town criers, mummeries, heralds, and rumormongers. Enough had been added, and enough removed, to shape it into precisely the cover the two men would need to fade into the hum and bustle of the mainland as just another two wayfarers, best of friends and no more - to those who knew them not. No more Duke of Mantua, no more nightmares of evils long past: only two lovers who found comfort in each other’s arms. “Love will find a way,” the dwarf mused. “Love will always find a way. At least, it does in stories.” With a chuckle, Varric retrieved his cup of wine and raised it to the fire. “And stories change, too. Was Robin Hood a noble in disguise? A brigand? A Knight? Who knows the truth, hmm?”

For a long while Varric stared into the fire, sipping his wine thoughtfully. “Mayhap time will change their story. Mayhap Dorian will become an heir to an Italian house who fell in love with the heiress to a rival house and together they’ll die in tragic beauty instead of escaping into the night.” He sighed at the thought of it. “Forbidden love? Ah, that’s the most beautiful story of them all. Still, I prefer a happy ending.”

A loud banging at his door made him grunt. “And now `tis time to learn the shape of my next tale.” Pushing himself from the chair, he moved to the door and opened it.

On the stoop, he found a woman much taller than he, cloak clutched tight around her body as she shivered against the chill of the pouring rain. He noted the dark brown eyes set in a determined gaze, but also the long, dark scar which ran down the jawline of the woman’s left cheek. “You are Varric?” she demanded in a heavy Austrian accent. “Boğa sent me hither.” She held up a heavy pouch which jingled. “I require your aid.”

“Follow me, my lady,” Varric said with a bow. _And so it begins anew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you who read this story! It is certainly a bit outside the norm for a Dragon Age fanfic, and for those of you who made it to the end, I am deeply grateful and humbled that you did so. This story was a personal challenge which I am proud to have written, and am extraordinarily honored to have anyone read it. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> A word of thanks and awe goes to my incredible betas/supporters: [Bethadots](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bethadots/pseuds/bethadots) and [The Lady Magician](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyMagician/pseuds/TheLadyMagician). Both of them are marvelous writers in their own right, and you should go read their works immediately!


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